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FOR WHOM 
THE BELL TOLLS 



FOR WHOM 

■I 

THE BELL TOLLS 


ERNEST 

HEMINGWAY 


NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
1940 


Copyright, 1940, by 
ERNEST HEMINGWAY 


Printed in the United States of America 


All rights reserved. No part of this book 
may be reproduced in any form mlhout 
the permission of Charles Scribner's Sons 


This book is for 

MARTHA GELLHORN 


5.1 Pol 


\ 'W ‘ ' ■' I 




FOR WHOM 
THE BELL TOLLS 


^Ido man is an Hand, intire of it selfe; every man 
is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a 
Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, 
as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor 
of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans 
death diminishes me, because I am in- 
volved in Mankinde; And therefore 
never send to know for 
whom the hell tolls; It 
tolls for thee. 


JOHN DONNE 

♦ ♦ 

♦ 


CHAPTER ONE 


He lay flat on the brown, pine-needled floor of the forest, his chin 
on his folded arms, and high overhead the wind blew in the tops 
of the pine trees. The mountainside sloped gendy where he lay; but 
below it was steep and he could see the dark of the oiled road wind- 
ing through the pass. There was a stream alongside the road and 
far down the pass he saw a mill beside the stream and the falling 
water of the dam, white in the summer sunlight. 

“Is that the mill.?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“I do not remember it.” 

“It was built since you were here. The old mill is farther down; 
much below the pass.” 

He spread the photostated military map out on the forest floor 
and looked at it carefully. The old man looked over his shoulder. 
He was a short and solid old man in a black peasant’s smock and 
gray iron-stiff trousers and he wore rope-soled shoes. He was breath- 
ing heavily from the climb and his hand rested on one of the two 
heavy packs they had been carrying. 

“Then you cannot see the bridge from here.” 

“No,” the old man said. “This is the easy country of the pass 
where the stream flows gently. Below, where the road turns out 
of sight in the trees, it drops suddenly and there is a steep gorge ” 

“I remember,” 

“Across this gorge is the bridge.” 

“And where are their posts?” 

“There is a post at the mill that you see there.” 

The young man, who was studying the country, took his glasses 
from the pocket of his faded, khaki flannel shirt, wiped the lenses 
with a handkerchief, screwed the eyepieces around until the boards 
of the mill showed suddenly clearly and he saw the wooden bench 
beside the door; the huge pile of sawdust that rose behind the open 
shed where the circular saw was, and a stretch of the flume that 


2 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


brought the logs down from the mountainside on the other bank 
of the stream. 1 he stream showed clear and smooth-looking in the 
glasses and, below the curl of the falling water, the spray from the 
dam was blowing in the wind. 

“There is no sentry.” 

“There is smoke coming from the mUlhouse,” the old man said, 
“There are also clothes hanging on a hne.” 

“I see them but I do not see any sentry.” 

“Perhaps he is in the shade,” the old man explained. “It is hot 
there now. He would be in the shadow at the end we do not see,” 

“Probably. Where is the next post.?” 

“Below the bridge. It is at the roadmender’s hut at kilometer five 
from the top of the pass.” 

“How many men are here?” He pointed at the mill. 

“Perhaps four and a corporal.” 

“And below?” 

“More. I will find out.” 

“And at the bridge?” 

“Always two. One at each end.” 

“We will need a certain number of men,” he said. “How many 
men can you get?” 

“I can bring as many men as you wish,” the old man said. “There 
are many men now here in the hiUs.” 

“How many?” 

“There are more than a hundred. But they are in small bands. 
How many men will you need?” 

“I will let you know when we have studied the bridge.” 

“Do you wish to study it now?” 

“No. Now I wish to go to where we will hide this explosive until 
it is time. I would like to have it hidden in utmost security at a 
distance no greater than half an hour from the bridge, if that is 
possible.” 

“That is simple,” the old man said. ‘Trom where we are going, 
it will all be downhill to the bridge. But now we must climb a Htde 
in seriousness to get there. Are you hungry?” 

“Yes,” the young man said. “But we will eat later. How are you 
called? I have forgotten.” It was a bad sign to him that he had for- 
gotten. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 3 

“Anselmo,” the old man said. “I am called Anselmo and I come 
from Barco de Avila. Let me help you with that pack.” 

The young man, who was tall and thin, with sun-streaked fair 
hair, and a wind- and sun-burned face, who wore the sun-faded 
flannel shirt, a pair of peasant’s trousers and rope-soled shoes, leaned 
over, put his arm through one of the leather pack straps and swung 
the heavy pack up onto his shoulders. He worked his arm through 
the other strap and settled the weight of the pack against his back. 
His shirt was still wet from where the pack had rested. 

“I have it up now,” he said. “How do we go?” 

“We climb,” Anselmo said. 

Bending under the weight of the packs, sweating, they climbed 
steadily in the pine forest that covered the mountainside. There was 
no trail that the young man could see, but they were working up 
and around the face of the mountain and now they crossed a small 
stream and the old man went steadily on ahead up the edge of the 
rocky stream bed. The climbing now was steeper and more difficult, 
until finally the stream seemed to drop down over the edge of a 
smooth granite ledge that rose above them and the old man waited 
at the foot of the ledge for the young man to come up to him. 

“How are you making it?” 

“All right,” the young man said. He was sweating heavily and 
his thigh muscles were twitchy from the steepness of the climb. 

“Wait here now for me. I go ahead to warn them. You do not 
want to be shot at carrying that stuff.” 

“Not even in a joke,” the young man said. “Is it far?” 

“It is very close. How do they call thee?” 

“Roberto,” the young man answered. He had slipped the pack off 
and lowered it gendy down between two boulders by the stream 
bed. 

“Wait here, then, Roberto, and I will return for you.” 

“Good,” the young man said. “But do you plan to go down this 
way to the bridge?” 

“No. When we go to the bridge it will be by another way. Shorter 
and easier.” 

“I do not want this material to be stored too far from the bridge.” 

“You will see. If you are not satisfied, we will take another place.” 

“We will see,” the young man said. 


4 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


V 


He sat by the packs and watched the old man climb the ledge. 
It was not hard to climb and from the way he found hand-holds 
without searching for them the young man could see that he had 
climbed it many times before. Yet whoever was above had been 
very careful not to leave any trail. 

The young man, whose name was Robert Jordan, was extremely 
hungry and he was worried. He was often hungry but he was not 
usually worried because he did not give any importance to what 
happened to himself and he knew from experience how simple it 
was to move behind the enemy lines in all this country. It was as 
simple to move behind them as it was to cross through them, if 
you had a good guide. It was only giving importance to what hap>- 
pened to you if you were caught that made it difficult; that and 
deciding whom to trust. You had to trust the people you worked 
with completely or not at all, and you had to make decisions about 
the trusting. He was not worried about any of that. But there were 
other things. 

This Anselmo had been a good guide and he could travel won- 
derfully in the mountains. Robert Jordan could walk well enough 
himself and he knew from following him since before daylight that 
the old man could walk him to death. Robert Jordan trusted the 
man, Anselmo, so far, in everything except judgment. He had not 
yet had an opportunity to test his judgment, and, anyway, the judg- 
ment was his own responsibility. No, he did not worry about An- 
selmo and the problem of the bridge was no more difficult than 
many other problems. He knew how to blow any sort of bridge 
that you could name and he had blown them of all sizes and con- 
structions. There was enough explosive and all equipment in the 
two packs to blow this bridge properly even if it were twdce as big 
as Anselmo reported it, as he remembered it when he had walked 
over it on his way to La Granja on a walking trip in 1933, and as 
Golz had read him the description of it night before last in that 
upstairs room in the house outside of the Escorial. 

“To blow the bridge is nothing,” Golz had said, the lamplight 
on his scarred, shaved head, pointing with a pencil on the big map. 
“You understand.?” 

“Yes, I understand.” 

“Absolutely nothing. Merely to blow the bridge is a failure,” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


5 


“Yes, Comrade General.” 

“To blow the bridge at a stated hour based on the time set for 
the attack is how it should be done. You see that naturally. That is 
your right and how it should be done.” 

Golz looked at the pencil, then tapped his teeth with it. 

Robert Jordan had said nothing. 

“You understand that is your right and how it should be done,” 
Golz went on, looking at him and nodding his head. He tapped on 
the map now with the pencil. “That is how I should do it. That is 
what we cannot have.” 

“Why, Comrade General?” 

“Why?” Golz said, angrily. “How many attacks have you seen 
and you ask me why? What is to guarantee that my orders are not 
changed? What is to guarantee that the attack is not annulled? 
What is to guarantee that the attack is not postponed? What is to 
guarantee that it starts within six hours of when it should start? 
Has any attack ever been as it should?” 

“It will start on time if it is your attack,” Robert Jordan said. 

“They are never my attacks,” Golz said. “I make them. But they 
are not mine. The artillery is not mine. I must put in for it. I have 
never been given what I ask for even when they have it to give. 
That is the least of it There are other things. You know how those 
people are. It is not necessary to go into all of it. Always there is 
something. Always some one will interfere. So now be sure you 
understand.” 

“So when is the bridge to be blown?” Robert Jordan had asked. 

“After the attack starts. As soon as the attack has started and not 
before. So that no reinforcements will come up over that road.” He 
pointed with his pencil. “I must know that nothing will come up 
over that road.” 

“And when is the attack?” 

“I will tell you. But you are to use the date and hour only as an 
indication of a probability. You must be ready for that time. You 
will blow the bridge after the attack has started. You see?” he in- 
dicated with the pencil. “That is the only road on which they can 
bring up reinforcements. That is the only road on which they can 
get up tanks, or artillery, or even move a truck toward the pass 
which I attack. I must know that bridge is gone. Not before, so it 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


6 

can be repaired if the attack is postponed. No. It must go when the 
attack starts and I must know it is gone. There are only two sen- 
tries. The man who will go with you has just come from there. He 
is a very reliable man, they say. You will see. He has people in the 
mountains. Get as many men as you need. Use as few as possible, 
but use enough. I do not have to tell you these things.” 

“And how do I determine that the attack has started.?” 

“It is to be made with a full division. There will be an aerial 
bombardment as preparation. You are not deaf, are you.?” 

“Then I may take it that when the planes unload, the attack has 
started.?” 

“You could not always take it like that,” Golz said and shook 
his head. “But in this case, you may. It is my attack.” 

“I understand it,” Robert Jordan had said. “I do not say I like it 
very much.” 

“Neither do I like it very much. If you do not want to undertake 
it, say so now. If you think you cannot do it, say so now.” 

“I will do it,” Robert Jordan had said. “I will do it all right.” 

“That is all I have to know,” Golz said. “That nothing comes 
up over that bridge. That is absolute.” 

“I understand.” 

“I do not like to ask people to do such things and in such a way,” 
Golz went on. “I could not order you to do it. I understand what 
you may be forced to do through my putting such conditions. I 
explain very carefully so that you understand and that you under- 
stand all of the possible difficulties and the importance.” 

“And how wiU you advance on La Granja if that bridge is 
blown.?” 

“We go forward prepared to repair it after we have stormed the 
pass. It is a very complicated and beautiful operation. As compH- 
cated and as beautiful as always. The plan has been manufactured 
in Madrid. It is another of Vicente Rojo, the unsuccessful profes- 
sor’s, masterpieces. I make the attack and I make it, as always, not 
in sufficient force. It is a very possible operation, in spite of that. I 
am much happier about it than usual. It can be successful with that 
bridge eliminated. We can take Segovia. Look, I show you how it 
goes. You see.? It is not the top of the pass where we attack. We 
hold that. It is much beyond. Look— Here— Like this ” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


7 


“I would rather not know,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Good,” said Golz. “It is less of baggage to carry with you on 
the other side, yes?” 

“I would always rather not know. Then, no matter what can 
happen, it was not me that talked.” 

“It is better not to know,” Golz stroked his forehead with the 
pencil. “Many times I wish I did not know myself. But you do 
know the one thing you must know about the bridge?” 

“Yes. I know that.” 

“I believe you do,” Golz said. “I will not make you any little 
speech. Let us now have a drink. So much talking makes me very 
thirsty, Comrade Hordan. You have a funny name in Spanish, 
Comrade Hordown.” 

“How do you say Golz in Spanish, Comrade General?” 

“Hotze,” said Golz grinning, making the sound deep in his 
throat as though hawking with a bad cold. “Hotze,” he croaked. 
“Comrade Heneral Khotze. If I had known how they pronounced 
Golz in Spanish I would pick me odt a better name before I come 
to war here. When I think I come to command a division and 
I can pick out any name I want and I pick out Hotze. Heneral 
Hotze. Now it is too late to change. How do you Uke panizan 
work?” It was the Russian term for guerilla work behind the 
hnes. 

“Very much,” Robert Jordan said. He grinned. “It is very healthy 
in the open air.” 

“I like it very much when I was your age, too,” Golz said. “They 
tell me you blow bridges very well. Very scientific. It is only hear- 
say. I have never seen you do anything myself. Maybe nothing 
ever happens really. You really blow them?” he was teasing now. 
“Drink this,” he handed the glass of Spanish brandy to Robert Jor- 
dan. “You really blow them?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“You better not have any sometimes on this bridge. No, let us 
not talk any more about this bridge. You understand enough now 
about that bridge. We are very serious so we can make very strong 
jokes. Look, do you have many girls on the other side of the 
lines?” 

“No, there is no time for girls.” 


8 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“I do not agree. The more irregular the service, the more irregu- 
lar the life. You have very irregular service. Also you need a hair- 
cut.” 

“I have my hair cut as it needs it,” Robert Jordan said. He would 
be damned if he would have his head shaved Hke Golz. “I have 
enough to think about without girls,” he said sullenly. 

“What sort of uniform am I supposed to wear?” Robert Jordan 
asked. 

“None,” Golz said. “Your haircut is all right. I tease you. You 
are very different from me,” Golz had said and filled up the glasses 
again. 

“You never think about only girls. I never think at all. Why 
should I? I am General Sovietique. I never think. Do not try to 
trap me into thinking.” 

Some one on his staff, sitting on a chair working over a map on 
a drawing board, growled at him in the language Robert Jordan 
did not understand. 

“Shut up,” Golz had said, in English. “I joke if I want. I am so 
serious is why I can joke. Now drink this and then go. You un- 
derstand, huh?” 

“Yes,” Robert Jordan had said. “I understand.” 

They had shaken hands and he had saluted and gone out to the 
staff car where the old man was waiting asleep and in that car they 
had ridden over the road past Guadarrama, the old man still asleep, 
and up the Navacerrada road to the Alpine Club hut where he, 
Robert Jordan, slept for three hours before they started. 

That was the last he had seen of Golz with his strange white 
face that never tanned, his hawk eyes, the big nose and thin lips 
and the shaven head crossed with wrinkles and with scars. Tomor- 
row night they would be outside the Escorial in the dark along the 
road; the long lines of trucks loading the infantry in the darkness; 
the men, heavy loaded, climbing up into the trucks; the machine- 
gun sections Hfting their guns into the trucks; the tanks being run 
up on the skids onto the long-bodied tank trucks; pulUng the Di- 
vision out to move them in the night for the attack on the pass. He 
would not think about that. That was not his business. That was 
Golz’s business. He had only one thing to do and that was what 
he should think about and he must think it out clearly and take 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 9 

everything as it came along, and not worry. To worry was as bad 
as to be afraid. It simply made thmgs more diificult. 

He sat now by the stream watching the clear water flowing be- 
tween the rocks and, across the stream, he noticed there was a thick 
bed of watercress. He crossed the stream, picked a double handful, 
washed the muddy roots clean in the current and then sat down 
again beside his pack and ate the clean, cool green leaves and the 
crisp, peppery-tasting stalks. He knelt by the stream and, pushing 
his automatic pistol around on his belt to the small of his back so 
that it would not be wet, he lowered himself with a hand on each 
of two boulders and drank from the stream. The water was ach- 
ingly cold. 

Pushing himself up on his hands he turned his head and saw the 
old man coming down the ledge. With him was another man, also 
in a black peasant’s smock and the dark gray trousers that were 
almost a uniform in that province, wearing rope-soled shoes and 
with a carbine slung over his back. This man was bareheaded. The 
two of them came scrambling down the rock hke goats. 

They came up to him and Robert Jordan got to his feet 

“Salud, Camarada,” he said to the man with the carbine and 
smiled. 

"Salud” the other said, grudgingly. Robert Jordan looked at the 
man’s heavy, beard-stubbled face. It was almost round and his head 
was round and set close on his shoulders. His eyes were small and 
set too wide apart and his ears were small and set close to his head. 
He was a heavy man about five feet ten inches tall and his hands 
and feet were large. His nose had been broken and his mouth was 
cut at one corner and the line of the scar across the upper lip and 
lower jaw showed through the growth of beard over his face. 

The old man nodded his head at this man and smiled. 

“He is the boss here,” he grinned, then flexed his arms as though 
to make the muscles stand out and looked at the man with the 
carbine in a half-mocking admiration. “A very strong man.” 

“I can see it,” Robert Jordan said and smiled again. He did not 
like the look of this man and inside himself he was not .s milin g 
at all. 

“What have you to justify your identity?” asked the man with 
the carbine. 


10 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


Robert Jordan unpinned a safety pin that ran through his pocket 
flap and took a folded paper out of the left breast pocket of his 
flannel shirt and handed it to the man, who opened it, looked at 
it doubtfully and turned it in his hands. 

So he cannot read, Robert Jordan noted. 

“Look at the seal,” he said. 

The old man pointed to the seal and the man with the carbine 
studied it, turning it in his fingers. 

“What seal is that.?” 

“Have you never seen it.?” 

“No.” 

“There are two,” said Robert Jordan. “One is S. I. M., the service 
of the military intelligence. The other is the General Staff.” 

“Yes, I have seen that seal before. But here no one commands but 
me,” the other said sullenly. “What have you in the packs.?” 

“Dynamite,” the old man said proudly. “Last night we crossed 
the lines in the dark and all day we have carried this dynamite over 
the mountain.” 

“I can use dynamite,” said the man with the carbine. He handed 
back the paper to Robert Jordan and looked him over. “Yes. I have 
use for dynamite. How much have you brought me.?” 

“I have brought you no dynamite,” Robert Jordan said to him 
evenly. “The dynamite is for another purpose. What is your 
name.?” 

“What is that to you?” 

“He is Pablo,” said the old man. The man with the carbine looked 
at them both sullenly. 

“Good. I have heard much good of you,” said Robert Jordan. 

“What have you heard of me?” asked Pablo. 

“I have heard that you are an excellent guerilla leader, that you 
are loyal to the republic and prove your loyalty through your acts, 
and that you are a man both serious and valiant. I bring you greet- 
ings from the General Staff.” 

“Where did you hear all this?” asked Pablo. Robert Jordan regis- 
tered that he was not taking any of the flattery. 

“I heard it from Buitrago to the Escorial,” he said, naming all 
the stretch of country on the other side of the lines. 

“I know no one in Buitrago nor in Escorial,” Pablo told him. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


II 


“There are many people on the other side of the mountains who 
were not there before. Where are you from.?” 

“Avila. What are you going to do with the dynamite?” 

“Blow up a bridge.” 

“What bridge?” 

“That is my business.” 

“If it is in this territory, it is my business. You cannot blow 
bridges close to where you live. You must live in one place and 
operate in another. I know my business. One who is alive, now, 
after a year, knows his business.” 

“This is my business,” Robert Jordan said. “We can discuss it 
together. Do you wish to help us with the sacks?” 

“No,” said Pablo and shook his head. 

The old man turned toward him suddenly and spoke rapidly and 
furiously in a dialect that Robert Jordan could just follow. It was 
like reading Quevedo. Anselmo was speaking old Castilian and it 
went something like this, “Art thou a brute? Yes. Art thou a beast? 
Yes, many times. Hast thou a brain? Nay. None. Now we come for 
something of consummate importance and thee, with thy dwelling 
place to be undisturbed, puts thy fox-hole before the interests of 
humanity. Before the interests of thy people. I this and that in the 
this and that of thy father. I this and that and that in thy this. Pic\ 
up that bag.” 

Pablo looked down. 

“Every one has to do what he can do according to how it can be 
truly done,” he said. “I live here and I operate beyond Segovia. If 
you make a disturbance here, we will be hunted out of these moun- 
tains. It is only by doing nothing here that we are able to live in 
these mountains. It is the principle of the fox.” 

“Yes,” said Anselmo bitterly. “It is the principle of the fox when 
we need the wolf.” 

“I am more wolf than thee,” Pablo said and Robert Jordan knew 
that he would pick up the sack. 

“Hi. Ho . . .,” Anselmo looked at him. “Thou art more wolf 
than me and I am sixty-eight years old.” 

He spat on the ground and shook his head. 

“You have that many years?” Robert Jordan asked, seeing that 
now, for the moment, it would be all right and trying to make it 
go easier. 


17 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“Sixty-eight in the month of July.” 

“If we should ever see that month,” said Pablo. “Let me help 
you with the pack,” he said to Robert Jordan. “Leave the other to 
the old man.” He spoke, not sullenly, but almost sadly now. “He 
is an old man of great strength,” 

“I will carry the pack,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Nay,” said the old man. “Leave it to this other strong man.” 

“I will take it,” Pablo told him, and in his sullenness there was a 
sadness that was disturbing to Robert Jordan. He knew that sad- 
ness and to see it here worried him. 

“Give me the carbine, then,” he said and when Pablo handed it 
to him, he slung it over his back and, with the two men climbing 
ahead of him, they went heavily, pulling and climbing up the 
granite shelf and over its upper edge to where there was a green 
clearing in the forest. 

They skirted the edge of the little meadow and Robert Jordan, 
striding easily now without the pack, the carbine pleasantly rigid 
over his shoulder after the heavy, sweating pack weight, noticed 
that the grass was cropped down in several places and signs that 
picket pins had been driven into the earth. He could see a trail 
through the grass where horses had been led to the stream to drink 
and there was the fresh manure of several horses. They picket them 
here to feed at night and keep them out of sight in the timber in 
the daytime, he thought. I wonder how many horses this Pablo has? 

He remembered now noticing, without realizing it, that Pablo’s 
trousers were worn soapy shiny in the knees and thighs. I wonder 
if he has a pair of boots or if he rides in those alpargatas, he thought. 
He must have quite an outfit. But I don’t like that sadness, he 
thought. That sadness is bad. That’s the sadness they get before 
they quit or before they betray. That is the sadness that comes be- 
fore the sell-out. 

Ahead of them a horse whinnied in the timber and then, through 
the brown trunks of the pine trees, only a little sunlight coming 
down through their thick, almost-touching tops, he saw the corral 
made by roping around the tree trunks. The horses had their heads 
pointed toward the men as they approached, and at the foot of a 
tree, outside the corral, the saddles were piled together and covered 
with a tarpaulin. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS I3 

As they came up, the two men with the packs stopped, and 
Robert Jordan knew it was for him to admire the horses, 

“Yes,” he said. “They are beautiful.” He turned to Pablo. “You 
have your cavalry and all.” 

There were five horses in the rope corral, three bays, a sorrel, 
and a buckskin. Sorting them out carefully with his eyes after he 
had seen them first together, Robert Jordan looked them over in- 
dividually. Pablo and Anselmo knew how good they were and 
while Pablo stood now proud and less sad-looking, watching them 
lovingly, the old man acted as though they were some great surprise 
that he had produced, suddenly, himself. 

“How do they look to you?” he asked. 

“All these I have taken,” Pablo said and Robert Jordan was 
pleased to hear him speak proudly. 

“That,” said Robert Jordan, pointing to one of the bays, a big 
stallion with a white blaze on his forehead and a single white foot, 
the near front, “is much horse.” 

He was a beautiful horse that looked as though he had come out 
of a painting by Velasquez, 

“They are all good,” said Pablo. “You know horses?” 

“Yes.” 

“Less bad,” said Pablo. “Do you see a defect in one of these?” 

Robert Jordan knew that now his papers were being examined 
by the man who could not read. 

The horses all still had their heads up looking at the man. Robert 
Jordan slipped through between the double rope of the corral and 
slapped the buckskin on the haunch. He leaned back against the 
ropes of the enclosure and watched the horses circle the corral, 
stood watching them a minute more, as they stood still, then leaned 
down and came out through the ropes. 

“The sorrel is lame in the off hind foot,” he said to Pablo, not 
looking at him. “The hoof is spUt and although it might not get 
worse soon if shod properly, she could break down if she travels 
over much hard ground.” 

“The hoof was like that when we took her,” Pablo said. 

“The best horse that you have, the white-faced bay stallion, has 
a swelling on the upper part of the cannon bone that I do not 
like.” 


14 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“It is nothing,” said Pablo. “He knocked it three days ago. If it 
were to be anything it would have become so already.” 

He pulled back the tarpaulin and showed the saddles. There were 
two ordinary vaquero’s or herdsman’s saddles, like American stock 
saddles, one very ornate vaquero’s saddle, with hand-tooled leather 
and heavy, hooded stirrups, and two military saddles in black 
leather. 

“We killed a pair of guardia civil” he said, explaining the mili- 
tary saddles. 

“That is big game.” 

“They had dismounted on the road between Segovia and Santa 
Maria del Real. They had dismounted to ask papers of the driver 
of a cart. We were able to kill them without injuring the horses.” 

“Have you killed many civil guards.?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“Several,” Pablo said. “But only these two without injury to the 
horses.” 

“It was Pablo who blew up the train at Arevalo,” Anselmo said. 
“That was Pablo.” 

“There was a foreigner with us who made the explosion,” Pablo 
said. “Do you know him?” 

“What is he called?” 

“I do not remember. It was a very rare name.” 

“What did he look hke?” 

“He was fair, as you are, but not as tall and with large hands and 
a broken nose.” 

“Kashkin,” Robert Jordan said. “That would be Kashkin.” 

“Yes,” said Pablo. “It was a very rare name. Something hke that. 
What has become of him?” 

“He is dead since April.” 

“That is what happens to everybody,” Pablo said, gloomily. “That 
is the way we will all finish.” 

“That is the way all men end,” Anselmo said. “That is the way 
men have always ended. What is the matter with you, man? What 
hast thou in the stomach?” 

‘‘They are very strong,” Pablo said. It was as though he were 
talking to himself. He looked at the horses gloomily. “You do not 
realize how strong they are. I see them always stronger, always 
better armed. Always with more material. Here am I with horses 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS I5 

like these. And what can I look forward to? To be hunted and to 
die. Nothing more.” 

“You hunt as much as you are hunted,” Anselmo said. 

“No,” said Pablo. “Not any more. And if we leave these moun- 
tains now, where can we go? Answer me that? Where now?” 

“In Spain there are many mountains. There are the Sierra de 
Credos if one leaves here.” 

“Not for me,” Pablo said. “I am tired of being hunted. Here we 
are all right. Now if you blow a bridge here, we will be hunted. If 
they know we are here and hunt for us with planes, they will find 
us. If they send Moors to hunt us out, they will find us and we 
must go. I am tired of all this. You hear?” He turned to Robert 
Jordan. “What right have you, a foreigrier, to come to me and tell 
me what I must do?” 

“I have not told you anything you must do,” Robert Jordan said 
to him. 

“You will though,” Pablo said. “There. There is the badness.” 

He pointed at the two heavy packs that they had lowered to the 
ground while they had watched the horses. Seeing the horses had 
seemed to bring this all to a head in him and seeing that Robert 
Jordan knew horses had seemed to loosen his tongue. The three 
of them stood now by the rope corral and the patchy sunlight 
shone on the coat of the bay stalhon. Pablo looked at him and then 
pushed with his foot against the heavy pack. “There is the badness.” 

“I come only for my duty,” Robert Jordan told him. “I come un- 
der orders from those who are conducting the war. If I ask you to 
help me, you can refuse and I will find others who will help me. 
I have not even asked you for help yet. I have to do what I am 
ordered to do and I can promise you of its importance. That I am 
a foreigner is not my fault. I would rather have been born here.” 

“To me, now, the most important is that we be not disturbed 
here,” Pablo said. “To me, now, my duty is to those who are with 
me and to myself.” 

“Thyself. Yes,” Anselmo said. “Thyself now since a long time. 
Thyself and thy horses. Until thou hadst horses thou wert with us. 
Now thou art another capitalist more.” 

“That is unjust,” said Pablo. “I expose the horses all the time 
for the cause.” 


i6 FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 

“Very iittle,” said Anselmo scornfully. “Very litde in my judg- 
ment. To steal, yes. To eat well, yes. To murder, yes. To fight, 
no.” 

“You are an old man who will make him self trouble with his 
mouth.” 

“I am an old man who is afraid of no one,” Anselmo told him . 
“Also I am an old man without horses.” 

“You are an old man who may not five long.” 

“I am an old man who will five until I die,” Ans elmo said. “And 
I am not afraid of foxes.” 

Pablo said nothing but picked up the pack. 

“Nor of wolves either,” Anselmo said, picking up the other pack. 
“If thou art a wolf.” 

“Shut thy mouth,” Pablo said to him. “Thou art an old man who 
always talks too much.” 

“And would do whatever he said he would do,” Anselmo said, 
bent under the pack. “And who now is hungry. And thirsty. Go on, 
guerilla leader with the sad face. Lead us to something to eat.” 

It is starting badly enough, Robert Jordan thought. But An- 
selmo’s a man. They are wonderful when they are good, he thought. 
There is no people like them when they are good and when they 
go bad there is no people that is worse. Anselmo must have known 
what he was doing when he brought us here. But I don’t fike it. I 
don’t like any of it. 

The only good sign was that Pablo was carrying the pack and 
that he had given him the carbine. Perhaps he is always like that, 
Robert Jordan thought. Maybe he is just one of the gloomy ones. 

No, he said to himself, don’t fool yourself. You do not know how 
he was before; but you do know that he is going bad fast and with- 
out hiding it. When he starts to hide it he will have made a de- 
cision. Remember that, he told himself. The first friendly thing he 
does, he will have made a decision. They are awfully good horses, 
though, he thought, beautiful horses. I wonder what could make 
me feel the way those horses make Pablo feel. The old man was 
right, horses made him rich and as soon as he was rich he 
wanted to enioy life. Pretty soon he’ll feel bad because he can’t join 
the Jockey Club, I guess, he thought. Pauvre Pablo. II a manque 
son Jockey. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


17 

That idea made him feel better. He grinned, looking at the two 
bent backs and the big packs ahead of him moving through the 
trees. He had not made any jokes with himself all day and now 
that he had made one he felt much better. You’re getting to be as 
all the rest of them, he told himself. You’re getting gloomy, too. 
He’d certainly been solemn and gloomy with Golz. The job had 
overwhelmed him a Httle. Slightly overwhelmed, he thought. Plenty 
overwhelmed. Golz was gay and he had wanted him to be gay 
too before he left, but he hadn’t been. 

All the best ones, when you thought it over, were gay. (It was 
much better to be gay and it was a sign of something too. It was 
like having immortality while you were still alive. That was a com- 
plicated one. There were not many of them left though. No, there 
were not many of the gay ones left. There were very damned few 
of them left. And if you keep on thinking like that, my boy, you 
won’t be left either. Turn off the thinking now, old timer, old com- 
rade. You’re a bridge-blower now. Not a thinker. Man, I’m hungry, 
he thought. I hope Pablo eats well. 


CHAPTER TWO 


They had come through the heavy timber to the cup-shaped upper 
end of the little valley and he saw where the camp must be under 
the rim-rock that rose ahead of them through the trees. 

That was the camp all right and it was a good camp. You did 
not see it at all until you were up to it and Robert Jordan knew it 
could not be spotted from the air. Nothing would show from above. 
It was as well hidden as a bear’s den. But it seemed to be Httle 
better guarded. He looked at it carefully as they came up. 

There was a large cave in the rim-rock formation and beside the 
opening a man sat with his back against the rock, his legs stretched 
out on the ground and his carbine leaning against the rock. He 
was cutting away on a stick with a knife and he stared at them 
as they came up, then went on whittling. 

"Hola,” said the seated man. “What is this that comes?” 

“The old man and a dynamiter,” Pablo told him and lowered 
the pack inside the entrance to the cave. Anselmo lowered his pack, 
too, and Robert Jordan unslung the rifle and leaned it against the 
rock. 

“Don’t leave it so close to the cave,” the whittling man, who had 
blue eyes in a dark, good-looking lazy gypsy face, the color of 
smoked leather, said. “There’s a fire in there.” 

“Get up and put it away thyself,” Pablo said. “Put it by that tree.” 

The gypsy did not move but said something unprintable, then, 
“Leave it there. Blow thyself up,” he said lazily. “ ’Twill cure thy 
diseases.” 

“What do you make?” Robert Jordan sat down by the gypsy. 
The gypsy showed him. It was a figure four trap and he was whit- 
tling the crossbar for it. 

“For foxes,” he said. “With a log for a dead-fall. It breaks their 
backs.” He grinned at Jordan. “Like this, see?” He made a motion 
of the framework of the trap collapsing, the log falling, then shook 
his head, drew in his hand, and spread his arms to show the fox 
with a broken back. “Very practical,” he explained. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


19 

“He catches rabbits,” Anselmo said. “He is a gypsy. So i£ he 
catches rabbits he says it is foxes. If be catches a fox be would say 
it was an elephant.” 

“And if I catch an elephant.?” the gypsy asked and showed his 
white teeth again and winked at Robert Jordan. 

“You’d say it was a tank,” Anselmo told him. 

“I’ll get a tank,” the gypsy told him. “I will get a tank. And you 
can say it is what you please.” 

“Gypsies talk much and kill little,” Anselmo told him. 

The gypsy winked at Robert Jordan and went on whitding. 

Pablo had gone in out of sight in the cave. Robert Jordan hoped 
he had gone for food. He sat on the ground by the gypsy and the 
afternoon sunlight came down through the tree tops and was warm 
on his outstretched legs. He could smell food now in the cave, the 
smell of oil and of onions and of meat frying and his stomach 
moved with hunger inside of him. 

“We can get a tank,” he said to the gypsy. “It is not too diffi- 
cult.” 

“With this?” the gypsy pointed toward the two sacks. 

“Yes,” Robert Jordan told him. “I will teach you. You make a 
trap. It is not too difficult.” 

“You and me?” . - 

“Sure,” said Robert Jordan. “Why not?” 

“Hey,” the gypsy said to Anselmo. “Move those two sacks to 
where they will be safe, will you? They’re valuable.” 

Anselmo grunted. “I am going for wine,” he told Robert Jordan. 
Robert Jordan got up and lifted the sacks away from the cave en- 
trance and leaned them, one on each side of a tree trunk. He knew 
what was in them and he never liked to see them close together. 

“Bring a cup for me,” the gypsy told him. 

“Is there wine?” Robert Jordan asked, sitting down again by the 
gypsy. 

“Wine? Why not? A whole skinful. Half a skinful, anyway,” 

“And what to eat?” 

“Everything, man,” the gypsy said. “We eat like generals.” 

“And what do gypsies do in the war?” Robert Jordan asked him. 

“They keep on being gypsies.” 

“That’s a good job.” 


20 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“The best,” the gypsy said. “How do they call thee?” 

“Roberto. And thee?” 

“Rafael. And this of the tank is serious?” 

“Surely. Why not?” 

Anselmo came out of the mouth of the cave with a deep stone 
basin full of red wine and with his fingers through the handles of 
three cups. “Look,” he said. “They have cups and aU.” Pablo came 
out behind them. 

“There is food soon,” he said. “Do you have tobacco?” 

Robert Jordan went over to the packs and opening one, felt inside 
an inner pocket and brought out one of the flat boxes of Russian 
cigarettes he had gotten at Golz’s headquarters. He ran his thumb- 
nail around the edge of the box and, opening the lid, handed them 
to Pablo who took half a dozen. Pablo, holding them in one of his 
huge hands, picked one up and looked at it against the hght. They 
were long narrow cigarettes with pasteboard cylinders for mouth- 
pieces. 

“Much air and little tobacco,” he said. “I know these. The other 
with the rare name had them.” 

“Kashkin,” Robert Jordan said and offered the cigarettes to the 
gypsy and Anselmo, who each took one. 

“Take more,” he said and they each took another He gave them 
each four more, they making a double nod with the hand holding 
the cigarettes so that the cigarette dipped its end as a man salutes 
with a sword, to thank him. 

“Yes,” Pablo said. “It was a rare name.” 

“Here is the wine.” Anselmo dipped a cup out of the bowl and 
handed it to Robert Jordan, then dipped for himself and the gypsy. 

“Is there no wine for me?” Pablo asked. They were all sitting 
together by the cave entrance. 

Anselmo handed him his cup and went into the cave for another. 
Coming out he leaned over the bowl and dipped the cup full and 
they all touched cup edges. 

The wine was good, tasting faintly resinous from the wineskin, 
but excellent, light and clean on his tongue. Robert Jordan drank it 
slowly, feeling it spread warmly through his tiredness. 

“The food comes shortly,” Pablo said. “And this foreigner with 
the rare name, how did he die?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


21 


“He was captured and he killed himself.” 

“How did that happen?” 

“He was wounded and he did not wish to be a prisoner.” 

“What were the details?” 

“I don’t know,” he lied. He knew the details very well and he 
knew they would not make good talking now. 

“He made us promise to shoot him in case he were wounded at 
the business of the train and should be unable to get away,” Pablo 
said. “He spoke in a very rare manner.” 

He must have been jumpy even then, Robert Jordan thought. 
Poor old Kashkin. 

“He had a prejudice against killing himself,” Pablo said. “He 
told me that. Also he had a great fear of being tortured.” 

“Did he tell you that, too?” Robert Jordan asked him. 

“Yes,” the gypsy said. “He spoke Hke that to all of us.” 

“Were you at the train, too?” 

‘Tes. All of us were at the train.” 

“He spoke in a very rare manner,” Pablo said. “But he was very 
brave.” 

Poor old Kashkin, Robert Jordan thought. He must have been 
doing more harm than good around here. I wish I would have 
known he was t : jumpy as far back as then. They should have 
pulled him out. You can’t have people around doing this sort of 
work and talking like that. That is no way to talk. Even if they 
accomplish their mission they are doing more harm than good, 
talking that sort of stuff. 

“He was a little strange,” Robert Jordan said. “I think he was a 
little crazy.” 

“But very dexterous at producing explosions,” the gypsy said. 
“And very brave.” 

“But crazy,” Robert Jordan said. “In this you have to have very 
much head and be very cold in the head. That was no way to 
talk.” 

“And you,” Pablo said. “If you are wounded in such a thing as 
this bridge, you would be willing to be left behind?” 

“Listen,” Robert Jordan said and, leaning forward, he dipped 
himself another cup of the wine. “Listen to me clearly. If ever I 
should have any litde favors to ask of any man, I will ask him at 
the time.” 


22 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“Good,” said the gypsy approvingly. “In this way speak the good 
ones. Ah! Here it comes.” 

“You have eaten,” said Pablo. 

“And I can eat twice more,” the gypsy told him . “Lx)ok now who 
brings it.” 

The girl stooped as she came out of the cave mouth carrying the 
big iron cooking platter and Robert Jordan saw her face turned at 
an angle and at the same time saw the strange thing about her. She 
smiled and said, "Hola, Comrade,” and Robert Jordan said, “Salud," 
and was careful not to stare and not to look away. She set down the 
flat iron platter in front of him and he noticed her handsome 
brown hands. Now she looked him full in the face and smiled. Her 
teeth were white in her brown face and her skin and her eyes were 
the same golden tawny brown. She had high cheekbones, merry 
eyes and a straight mouth with full lips. Her hair was the golden 
brown of a grain field that has been burned dark in the sun but it 
was cut short all over her head so that it was but little longer than 
the fur on a beaver pelt. She smiled in Robert Jordan’s face and put 
her brown hand up and ran it over her head, flattening the hair 
which rose again as her hand passed. She has a beautiful face, 
Robert Jordan thought. She’d be beautiful if they hadn’t cropped 
her hair. 

“That is the way I comb it,” she said to Robert Jordan and 
laughed. “Go ahead and eat. Don’t stare at me. They gave me this 
haircut in Valladolid. It’s almost grown out now.” 

She sat down opposite him and looked at him. He looked back 
at her and she smiled and folded her hands together over her 
knees. Her legs slanted long and clean from the open cuffs of the 
trousers as she sat with her hands across her knees and he could 
see the shape of her small, up-tilted breasts under the gray shirt. 
Every time Robert Jordan looked at her he could feel a thickness 
in his throat. 

“There are no plates,” Anselmo said. “Use your own knife.” 
The girl had leaned four forks, tines down, against the sides of 
the iron dish. 

They were all eating out of the platter, not speaking, as is the 
Spanish custom. It was rabbit cooked with onions and green 
peppers and there were chick peas in the red wine sauce. It was 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


23 

well cooked, the rabbit meat flaked off the bones, and the sauce 
was delicious. Robert Jordan drank another cup of wine while 
he ate. The girl watched him all through the meal. Every one 
else was watching his food and eating. Robert Jordan wiped up 
the last of the sauce in front of him with a piece of bread, piled 
the rabbit bones to one side, wiped the spot where they had been 
for sauce, then wiped his fork clean with the bread, wiped his 
knife and put it away and ate the bread. He leaned over and 
dipped his cup full of wine and the girl still watched him. 

Robert Jordan drank half the cup of wine but the thickness still 
came in his throat when he spoke to the girl. 

“How art thou called .f*” he asked. Pablo looked at him quickly 
when he heard the tone of his voice. Then he got up and walked 
away. 

“Maria. And thee?” 

“Roberto. Have you been long in the mountains?” 

“Three months.” 

“Three months?” he looked at her hair, that was as thick and 
short and rippling when she passed her hand over it, now in embar- 
rassment, as a grain field in the wind on a hillside. “It was shaved,” 
she said. “They shaved it regularly in the prison at Valladolid. 
It has taken three months to grow to this. I was on the train. 
They were taking me to the south. Many of the prisoners were 
caught after the train was blown up but I was not. I came with 
these.” 

“I found her hidden in the rocks,” the gypsy said. “It was when 
we were leaving. Man, but this one was ugly. We took her along 
but many times I thought we would have to leave her.” 

“And the other who was with them at the train?” asked Maria. 
“The other blond one. The foreigner. Where is he?” 

“Dead,” Robert Jordan said. “In April.” 

“In April? The train was in April.” 

“Yes,” Robert Jordan said. “He died ten days after the train.” 

“Poor man,” she said. “He was very brave. And you do that 
same business?” 

“Yes.” 

“You have done trains, too?” 

“Yes. Three trains.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


24 

“Here?” 

“In Estremadura,” he said. “I was in Estremadura before I came 
here. We do very much in Estremadura. There are many of us 
working in Estremadura.” 

“And why do you come to these mountains now?” 

“I take the place of the other blond one. Also I know this 
country from before the movement” 

“You know it well?” 

“No, not really well. But I learn fast. I have a good map and 
I have a good guide.” 

“The old man,” she nodded. “The old man is very good.” 

“Thank you,” Anselmo said to her and Robert Jordan reahzed 
suddenly that he and the girl were not alone and he realized too 
that it was hard for him to look at her because it made his voice 
change so. He was violating the second rule of the two rules for 
getting on well with people that speak Spanish; give the men 
tobacco and leave the women alone; and he realized, very sud- 
denly, that he did not care. There were so many things that he 
had not to care about, why should he care about that? 

“You have a very beautiful face,” he said to Maria. “I wish I 
would have had the luck to see you before your hair was cut.” 

“It will grow out,” she said. “In six months it will be long 
enough.” 

“You should have seen her when we brought her from the 
train. She was so ugly it would make you sick.” 

“Whose woman are you?” Robert Jordan asked, trying now to 
pull out of it. “Are you Pablo’s?” 

She looked at him and laughed, then slapped him on the 
knee. 

“Of Pablo? You have seen Pablo?” 

“Well, then, of Rafael. I have seen Rafael.” 

“Of Rafael neither.” 

“Of no one,” the gypsy said. “This is a very strange woman. 
Is of no one. But she cooks well.” 

“Really of no one?” Robert Jordan asked her. 

“Of no one. No one. Neither in joke nor in seriousness. Nor 
of thee either.” 

“No?” Robert Jordan said and he could feel the thickness com- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 25 

ing in his throat again. “Good. I have no time for any woman, 
lhat is true.” 

“Not fifteen minutes?” the gypsy asked teasingly. “Not a quar- 
ter of an hour?” Robert Jordan did not answer. He looked at the 
girl, Maria, and his throat felt too thick for him to trust him- 
self to speak. 

Maria looked at him and laughed, then blushed suddenly but 
kept on looking at him. 

“You are blushing,” Robert Jordan said to her, “Do you blush 
much?” 

“Never.” 

“You are blushing now.” 

“Then I will go into the cave.” 

“Stay here, Maria.” 

“No,” she said and did not smile at him. “I will go into the 
cave now.” She picked up the iron plate they had eaten from 
and the four forks. She moved awkwardly as a colt moves, but 
with that same grace as of a young animal. 

“Do you want the cups?” she asked. 

Robert Jordan was still looking at her and she blushed again. 

“Don’t make me do that,” she said. “I do not like to do 
that.” 

“Leave them,” the gypsy said to her. “Here,” he dipped into 
the stone bowl and handed the full cup to Robert Jordan who 
watched the girl duck her head and go into the cave carrying the 
heavy iron dish. 

“Thank you,” Robert Jordan said. His voice was all right again, 
now that she was gone. “This is the last one. We’ve had enough 
of this.” 

“We will finish the bowl,” the gypsy said. “There is over half 
a skin. We packed it in on one of the horses.” 

“That was the last raid of Pablo,” Ansehno said. “Since then he 
has done nothing.” 

“How many are you?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“We are seven and there are two women.” 

“Two?” 

“Yes. The mujer of Pablo.” 

“And she?” 


26 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“In the cave. The girl can cook a Uttle. I said she cooks well 
to please her. But mostly she helps the mujer of Pablo.” 

“And how is she, the mujer of Pablo?” 

“Something barbarous,” the gypsy grinned. “Something very 
barbarous. If you think Pablo is ugly you should see his woman. 
But brave. A hundred times braver than Pablo. But something 
barbarous.” 

“Pablo was brave in the beginning,” Anselmo said. “Pablo was 
something serious in the beginning.” 

“He killed more people than the cholera,” the gypsy said. “At 
the start of the movement, Pablo killed more people than the 
typhoid fever.” 

“But since a long time he is muy flojo’’ Anselmo said. “He is 
very flaccid. He is very much afraid to die.” 

“It is possible that it is because he has killed so many at the 
beginning,” the gypsy said philosophically. “Pablo kill ed more 
than the bubonic plague.” 

“That and the riches,” Anselmo said. “Also he drinks very 
much. Now he would hke to retire like a matador de toros^ Like 
a bull fighter. But he cannot retire.” 

“If he crosses to the other side of the lines they will take his 
horses and make him go in the army,” the gypsy said. “In me 
there is no love for being in the army either.” 

“Nor is there in any other gypsy,” Anselmo said. 

“Why should there be?” the gypsy asked. “Who wants to be 
in an army? Do we make the revolution to be in an army? I am 
willing to fight but not to be in an army.” 

“Where are the others?” asked Robert Jordan. He felt com- 
fortable and sleepy now from the wine and lying back on the 
floor of the forest he saw through the tree tops the small after- 
noon clouds of the mountains moving slowly ip the high Spanish 
sky. 

“There are two asleep in the cave,” the g^'psy said. “Two are 
on guard above where we have the gun. One is on guard below. 
They are probably all asleep.” 

Robert Jordan rolled over on his side. 

“What kind of a gun is it?” 

“A very rare name,” the gypsy said. ‘It has gone away from 
me for the moment. It is a machine gun.” 


i 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


27 


It must be an automatic rifle, Robert Jordan thought. 

“How much does it weigh?” he asked. 

“One man can carry it but it is heavy. It has three legs that 
fold. We got it in the last serious raid. The one before the 
wine.” 

“How many rounds have you for it?” 

“An infinity,” the gypsy said. “One whole case of an tmbeliev- 
able heaviness.” 

Sounds like about five hundred rounds, Robert Jordan thought. 

“Does it feed from a pan or a belt?” 

“From round iron cans on the top of the gun.” 

Hell, it’s a Lewis gun, Robert Jordan thought. 

“Do you know anything about a machine gun?” he asked the 
old man. 

“Nad a,” said Anselmo. “Nothing.” 

*‘And thou?” to the gypsy. 

“That they fire with much rapidity and become so hot the 
barrel burns the hand that touches it,” the gypsy said proudly. 

“Every one knows that,” Anselmo said with contempt. 

“Perhaps,” the gypsy said. “But he asked me to tell what I 
know about a mdquina and I told him.” Then he added, “Also, 
unlike an ordinary rifle, they continue to fire as long as you 
exert pressure on the trigger.” 

“Unless they jam, run out of ammunition or get so hot they 
melt,” Robert Jordan said in English. ' 

“What do you say?” Anselmo asked him. 

“Nothing,” Robert Jordan said. “I was only looking into the 
future in English.” 

“That is something truly rare,” the gypsy said. “Looking into 
the future in Ingles. Can you read in the palm of the hand?” 

“No,” Robert Jordan said and he dipped another cup of wine. 
“But if thou canst I wish thee would read in the palm of my 
hand and tell me what is going to pass in the next three days.” 

“The mujer of Pablo reads in the hands,” the gypsy said. “But 
she is so irritable and of such a barbarousness that I do not know 
if she will do it.” 

Robert Jordan sat up now and took a swallow of the wine. 

“Let us see the mujer of Pablo now,” he said. “If it is that 
bad let us get it over with.” 


28 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“I would not disturb her,” Rafael said. “She has a strong hatred 
for me.” 

“Why?” 

“She treats me as a time waster.” 

“What injustice,” Anselmo taunted. 

“She is against gypsies.” 

“What an error,” Anselmo said. 

“She has gypsy blood,” Rafael said. “She knows of what she 
speaks.” He grinned. “But she has a tongue that scalds and that 
bites like a bull whip. With this tongue she takes the hide from 
any one. In strips. She is of an unbelievable barbarousness.” 

“How does she get along with the girl, Maria?” Robert Jordan 
asked. 

“Good. She likes the girl. But let any one come near her seri- 
ously—” He shook his head and clucked with his tongue. 

“She is very good with the girl,” Anselmo said. “She takes good 
care of her.” 

“When we picked the girl up at the time of the train she was 
very strange,” Rafael said. “She would not speak and she cried 
all the time and if any one touched her she would shiver like a 
wet dog. Only lately has she been better. Lately she has been 
much better. Today she was fine. Just now, talking to you, she 
was very good. We would have left her after the train. Certainly 
it was not worth being delayed by something so sad and ugly and 
apparently worthless. But the old woman tied a rope to her and 
when the girl thought she could not go further, the old woman 
beat her with the end of the rope to make her go. Then when 
she could not really go further, the old woman carried her over 
her shoulder. When the old woman could not carry her, I carried 
her. We were going up that hill breast high in the gorse and 
heather. And when I could no longer carry her, Pablo carried her. 
But what the old woman had to say to us to make us do it!” 
He shook his head at the memory. “It is true that the girl is long 
in the legs but is not heavy. The bones are fight and she weighs 
little. But she weighs enough when we had to carry her and stop 
to fire and then carry her again with the old woman lashing at 
Pablo with the rope and carrying his rifle, putting it in his hand 
when he would drop the girl, making him pick her up again and 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


29 

loading the gun for him while she cursed him; taking the shells 
from his pouches and shoving them down into the magazine and 
cursing him. The dusk was coming well on then and when the 
night came it was ail right. But it was lucky that they had no 
cavalry.” 

“It must have been very hard at the train,” Anselmo said. “I 
was not there,” he explained to Robert Jordan. “There was the 
band of Pablo, of El Sordo, whom we will see tonight, and two 
other bands of these mountains. I had gone to the other side of 
the lines.” 

“In addition to the blond one with the rare name—” the gypsy 
said. 

“Kashkin.” 

“Yes. It is a name I can never dominate. We had two with a 
machine gim. They were sent also by the army. They could not 
get the gun away and lost it. Certainly it weighed no more than 
that girl and if the old woman had been over them they would 
have gotten it away.” He shook his head remembering, then went 
on. “Never in my life have I seen such a thing as when the 
explosion was produced. The train was coming steadily. We saw 
it far away. And I had an excitement so great that I cannot tell it. 
We saw steam from it and then later came the noise of the whistle. 
Then it came chu-chu-chu-chu-chu-chu steadily larger and larger 
and then, at the moment of the explosion, the front wheels of 
the engine rose up and all of the earth seemed to rise in a great 
cloud of blackness and a roar and the engine rose high in the 
cloud of dirt and of the wooden ties rising in the air as in a dream 
and then it fell onto its side like a great wounded animal and 
there was an explosion of white steam before the clods of the 
other explosion had ceased to fall on us and the mdquina com- 
menced to speak ta-tat-tat-ta!” went the gypsy shaking his two 
clenched fists up and down in front of him, thumbs up, on an 
imaginary machine gun. “Ta! Ta! Tat! Tat! Tat! Ta!” he exulted. 
“Never in my life have I seen such a thing, with the troops run- 
ning from the train and the mdquina speaking into them and the 
men falling. It was then that I put my hand on the mdquina in 
my excitement and discovered that the barrel burned and at that 
moment the old woman slapped me on the side of the face and 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


30 

said, ‘Shoot, you fool! Shoot or I will kick your brains ini’ Then 
I commenced to shoot but it was very hard to hold my gun steady 
and the troops were running up the far hill. Later, after we had 
been down at the train to see what there was to take, an officer 
forced some troops back toward us at the point of a pistol. He 
kept waving the pistol and shouting at them and we were all 
shooting at him but no one hit him. Then some troops lay down 
and commenced firing and the officer walked up and down be- 
hind them with his pistol and still we could not hit him and the 
mdquina could not fire on him because of the position of the train. 
This officer shot two men as they lay and still they would not get 
up and he was cursing them and finally they got up, one two and 
three at a time and came running toward us and the tr ain . Then 
they lay flat again and fired. Then we left, with the mdquina s till 
speaking over us as we left. It was then 1 found the girl where she 
had run from the train to the rocks and she ran with us. It was 
those troops who hunted us until that night.” 

“It must have been something very hard,” Anselmo said. “Of 
much emotion.” 

“It was the only good thing we have done,” said a deep voice. 
“What are you doing now, you lazy drunken obscene unsayable 
son of an unnameable unmarried gypsy obscenity .i* What are you 
doing.?” 

Robert Jordan saw a woman of about fifty almost as big as 
Pablo, almost as wide as she was tall, in black peasant skirt and 
waist, with heavy wool socks on heavy legs, black rope-soled shoes 
and a brown face like a model for a granite monument. She had 
big but nice looking hands and her thick curly black hair was 
twisted into a knot on her neck. 

“Answer me,” she said to the gypsy, ignoring the others. 

“I was talking to these comrades. This one comes as a dynamiter.” 

“I know all that,” the mujer of Pablo said. “Get out of here 
now and relieve Andres who is on guard at the top.” 

“Me voy” the gypsy said. “I go.” He turned to Robert Jordan. 
“I will see thee at the hour of eating.” 

“Not even in a joke,” said the woman to him. “Three times you 
have eaten today according to my count. Go now and send me 
Andres.” 

“Hola,” she said to Robert Jordan and put out her hand and 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


31 

smiled. “How are you and how is everything in the RepubUc.?” 

“Good,” he said and returned her strong hand grip. “Both with 
me and with the Republic.” 

“I am happy,” she told him. She was looking into his face and 
smihng and he noticed she had line gray eyes. “Do you come for 
us to do another train.?” 

“No,” said Robert Jordan, trusting her instantly. “For a bridge.” 

"No es nada,” she said. “A bridge is nothing. When do we do 
another train now that we have horses.?” 

“Later. This bridge is of great importance.” 

“The girl told me your comrade who was with us at the train 
is dead.” 

“Yes.” 

“What a pity. Never have I seen such an explosion. He was a 
man of talent. He pleased me very much. It is not possible to do 
another train now.? There are many men here now in the hills. 
Too many. It is already hard to get food. It would be better to get 
out. And we have horses.” 

“We have to do this bridge.” 

“Where is it?” 

“Quite close.” 

“All the better,” the mujer of Pablo said. “Let us blow all the 
bridges there are here and get out. I am sick of this place. Here 
is too much concentration of people. No good can come of it. Here 
is a stagnation that is repugnant.” 

She sighted Pablo through the trees. 

"Borracho!” she called to him. “Drunkard. Rotten drunkard!” 
She turned back to Robert Jordan cheerfully. “He’s taken a leather 
wine bottle to drink alone in the woods,” she said. “He’s drinking 
all the time. This life is ruining him. Young man, I am very con- 
tent that you have come.” She clapped him on the back. “Ah,” 
she said. “You’re bigger than you look,” and ran her hand over 
his shoulder, feeling the muscle under the flannel shirt. “Good. I 
am very content that you have come.” 

‘^And I equally.” 

“We will understand each other,” she said. “Have a cup of 
wine.” 

“We have already had some,” Robert Jordan said. “But, will 
you?” 


32 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“Not until dinner,” she said. “It gives me heartburn.” Then 
she sighted Pablo again. “Borrachol” she shouted. “Drunkard!” 
She turned to Robert Jordan and shook her head. “He was a very 
good man,” she told him. “But now he is terminated. And Usten 
to me about another thing. Be very good and careful about the 
girl. The Maria. She has had a bad time. Understandest thou.^” 

“Yes. Why do you say this.?” 

“I saw how she was from seeing thee when she came into the 
cave. I saw her watching thee before she came out.” 

“I joked with her a little.” 

“She was in a very bad state,” the woman of Pablo said. “Now 
she is better, she ought to get out of here.” 

“Clearly, she can be sent through the lines with Anselmo.” 

“You and the Anselmo can take her when this terminates.” 

Robert Jordan felt the ache in his throat and his voice thicken- 
ing. “That might be done,” he said. 

The mujer of Pablo looked at him and shook her head. “Ayee. 
Ayee,” she said. “Are all men like that.?” 

“I said nothing. She is beautiful, you know that.” 

“No she is not beautiful. But she begins to be beautiful, you 
mean,” the woman of Pablo said. “Men. It is a shame to us 
women that we make them. No. In seriousness. Are there not 
homes to care for such as her under the Republic?” 

“Yes,” said Robert Jordan. “Good places. On the coast near 
Valencia. In other places too. There they will treat her well and 
she can work with children. There are the children from evacuated 
villages. They will teach her the work.” 

“That is what I want,” the mujer of Pablo said. “Pablo has a sick- 
ness for her already. It is another thing which destroys him. It 
lies on him Hke a sickness when he sees her. It is best that she 
goes now.” 

“We can take her after this is over.” 

“And you will be careful of her now if I trust you? I speak 
to you as though I knew you for a long time.” 

“It is like that,” Robert Jordan said, “when people understand 
one another.” 

“Sit down,” the woman of Pablo said. ‘1 do not ask any promise 
because what will happen, will happen. Only if you will not take 
her out, then I ask a promise.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


33 


“Why if I would not take her?” 

“Because I do not want her crazy here after you will go. I have 
had her crazy before and I have enough without that.” 

“We will take her after the bridge,” Robert Jordan said. “If 
we are aUve after the bridge, we will take her.” 

“I do not like to hear you speak in that manner. That manner 
of speaking never brings luck.” 

“I spoke in that manner only to make a promise,” Robert Jordan 
said. “I am not of those who speak gloomily.” 

“Let me see thy hand,” the woman said. Robert Jordan put 
his hand out and the woman opened it, held it in her own big 
hand, rubbed her thumb over it and looked at it, carefully, then ' 
dropped it. She stood up. He got up too and she looked at him 
without smiling. 

“What did you see In it?” Robert Jordan asked her. “I don’t 
believe in it. You won’t scare me.” 

“Nothing,” she told him. “I saw nothing in It.” 

“Yes you did. I am only curious. I do not beUeve in such things.” 

“In what do you believe?” 

“In many things but not in that.” 

“In what?” 

“In my work.” 

“Yes, I saw that.” 

“Tell me what else you saw.” 

“I saw nothing else,” she said bitterly. “The bridge is very dif- 
ficult you said?” 

“No. I said it is very important” 

“But it can be difficult?” 

“Yes. And now I go down to look at it How many men have 
you here?” 

“Five that are any good. The gypsy is worthless although his 
intentions are good. He has a good heart. Pablo I no longer trust.” 

“How many men has El Sordo that are good?” 

“Perhaps eight. We will see tonight. He is coming here. He Is 
a very practical man. He also has some dynamite. Not very much, 
though. You will speak with him.” 

“Have you sent for him?” 

“He comes every night. He Is a neighbor. Also a friend as well 
as a comrade.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


34 

“What do you think of him?” 

“He is a very good man. Also very practical. In the business of 
the train he was enormous.” 

“And in the other bands?” 

“Advising them in time, it should be possible to unite fifty 
rifles of a certain dependability.” 

“How dependable?” 

“Dependable within the gravity of the situation.” 

“And how many cartridges per rifle?” 

“Perhaps twenty. Depending how many they would bring for 
this business. If they would come for this business. Remember 
thee that in this of a bridge there is no money and no loot and 
in thy reservations of talking, much danger, and that afterwards 
there must be a moving from these mountains. Many will oppose 
this of the bridge.” 

“Clearly.” 

“In this way it is better not to speak of it imnecessarily.” 

“I am in accord.” 

“Then after thou hast studied thy bridge we will talk tonight 
with El Sordo.” 

“I go down now with Anselmo.” 

“Wake him then,” she said. “Do you want a carbine?” 

“Thank you,” he told her. “It is good to have but I will not 
use it. I go to look, not to make disturbances. Thank you for what 
you have told me. I like very much your way of speaking.” 

“I try to speak frankly,” 

“Then tell me what you saw in the hand.” 

“No,” she said and shook her head. “I saw nothing. Go now to 
thy bridge. I will look after thy equipment.” 

“Cover it and that no one should touch it. It is better there 
than in the cave.” 

“It shall be covered and no one shall touch it,” the woman of 
Pablo said. “Go now to thy bridge.” 

“Anselmo,” Robert Jordan said, putting his hand on the shoulder 
of the old man who lay sleeping, his head on his arms. 

The old man looked up. “Yes,” he said. “Of course. Let us go.” 


CHAPTER THREE 


They came down the last two hundred yards, moving carefully 
from tree to tree in the shadows and now, through the last pines 
of the steep hillside, the bridge was only fifty yards away. The 
late afternoon sun that still came over the brown shoulder of the 
mountain showed the bridge dark against the steep emptiness of 
the gorge. It was a steel bridge of a single span and there was a 
sentry box at each end. It was wide enough for two motor cars 
to pass and it spanned, in solid-flung metal grace, a deep gorge 
at the bottom of which, far below, a brook leaped in white water 
through rocks and boulders down to the main stream of the pass. 

The sun was in Robert Jordan’s eyes and the bridge showed 
only in outline. Then the sun lessened and was gone and looking 
up through the trees at the brown, rounded height that it had 
gone behind, he saw, now, that he no longer looked into the glare, 
that the mountain slope was a delicate new green and that there 
were patches of old snow under the crest. 

Then he was watching the bridge again in the sudden short true- 
ness of the little light that would be left, and studying its con- 
struction. The problem of its demolition was not difficult. As he 
watched he took out a notebook from his breast pocket and made 
several quick line sketches. As he made the drawings he did not 
figure the charges. He would do that later. Now he was noting 
the points where the explosive should be placed in order to cut 
the support of the span and drop a section of it into the gorge. 
It could be done unhurriedly, scientifically and correctly with a 
half dozen charges laid and braced to explode simultaneously; or 
it could be done roughly with two big ones. They would need to 
be very big ones, on opposite sides and should go at the same time. 
He sketched quickly and happily; glad at last to have the problem 
under his hand; glad at last actually to be engaged upon it Then 

35 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


36 

he shut his notebook, pushed the pencil into its leather holder 
in the edge of the flap, put the notebook in his pocket and buttoned 
the pocket. 

While he had sketched, Ansehno had been watching the road, 
the bridge and the sentry boxes. He thought they had come too 
close to the bridge for safety and when the sketching was finished, 
he was relieved. 

As Robert Jordan buttoned the flap of his pocket and then 
lay flat behind the pine trunk, looking out from behind it, An- 
selmo put his hand on his elbow and pointed with one fin ger. 

In the sentry box that faced toward them up the road, the sentry 
was sitting holding his rifle, the bayonet fixed, between his knees. 
He was smoking a cigarette and he wore a knitted cap and 
blanket style cape. At fifty yards, you could not see anything about 
his face. Robert Jordan put up his field glasses, shading the lenses 
carefully with his cupped hands even though there was now no 
sun to make a glint, and there was the rail of the bridge as clear 
as though you could reach out and touch it and there was the 
face of the sentry so clear he could see the sunken cheeks, the 
ash on the cigarette and the greasy shine of the bayonet. It was a 
peasant’s face, the cheeks hollow under the high cheekbones, the 
beard stubbled, the eyes shaded by the heavy brows, big hands 
holding the rifle, heavy boots showing beneath the folds of the 
blanket cape. There was a worn, blackened leather wine botde on 
the wall of the sentry box, there were some newspapers and there 
was no telephone. There could, of course, be a telephone on the side 
he could not see; but there were no wires running from the box that 
were visible. A telephone line ran along the road and its wires were 
carried over the bridge. There was a charcoal brazier outside the 
sentry box, made from an old petrol tin with the top cut off and 
holes punched in it, which rested on two stones; but it held no fire. 
There were some fire-blackened empty tins in the ashes under it 

Robert Jordan handed the glasses to Ansehno who lay flat beside 
him. The old man grinned and shook his head. He tapped his 
skull beside his eye with one finger. 

“Ya lo veo" he said in Spanish. “I have seen him,” speaking from 
the front of his mouth with almost no movement of his Hps in 
the way that is quieter than any whisper. He looked at the sentr}' 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


37 

as Robert Jordan smiled at him and, pointing with one finger, 
drew the other across his throat. Robert Jordan nodded but he 
did not smile. 

The sentry box at the far end of the bridge faced away from 
them and down the road and they could not see into it. The road, 
which was broad and oiled and well constructed, made a turn to 
the left at the far end of the bridge and then swung out of sight 
around a curve to the right. At this point it was enlarged from 
the old road to its present width by cutting into the solid bastion 
of the rock on the far side of the gorge; and its left or western 
edge, looking down from the pass and the bridge, was marked and 
protected by a line of upright cut blocks of stone where its edge 
fell sheer away to the gorge. The gorge was almost a canyon here, 
where the brook, that the bridge was flung over, merged with the 
main stream of the pass. 

“And the other post?” Robert Jordan asked Anselmo. 

“Five hundred meters below that turn. In the roadmender’s hut 
that is built into the side of the rock.” 

“How many men?” Robert Jordan asked. 

He was watching the sentry again with his glasses. The sentry 
rubbed his cigarette out on the plank wall of the box, then took 
a leather tobacco pouch from his pocket, opened the paper of the 
dead cigarette and emptied the remnant of used tobacco into the 
pouch. The sentry stood up, leaned his rifle against the wall of 
the box and stretched, then picked up his rifle, slung it over his 
shoulder and walked out onto the bridge. Anselmo flattened on 
the ground and Robert Jordan slipped his glasses into his shirt 
pocket and put his head well behind the pine tree. 

“There are seven men and a corporal,” Anselmo said close to 
his ear. “I informed myself from the gypsy.” 

“We will go now as soon as he is quiet,” Robert Jordan said. 
“We are too close.” 

“Hast thou seen what thou needest?” 

“Yes. All that I need.” 

It was getting cold quickly now with the sun down and the 
light was failing as the afterglow from the last sunlight on the 
mountains behind them faded. 

“How does it look to thee?” Anselmo said sofdy as they watched 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


38 

the sentry walk across the bridge toward the other box, his bayonet 
bright in the last of the afterglow, his figure unshapely in the 
blanket coat. 

“Very good,” Robert Jordan said. “Very, very good.” 

“I am glad,” Anselmo said. “Should we go.? Now there is no 
chance that he sees us.” 

The sentry was standing, his back toward them, at the far end 
of the bridge. From the gorge came the noise of the stream in the 
boulders. Then through this noise came another noise, a steady, 
racketing drone and they saw the sentry looking up, his knitted 
cap slanted back, and turning their heads and looking up they 
saw, high in the evening sky, three monoplanes in V formation, 
showing minute and silvery at that height where there still was 
sun, passing unbelievably quickly across the sky, their motors now 
throbbing steadily. 

“Ours.?” Anselmo asked. 

“They seem so,” Robert Jordan said but knew that at that 
height you never could be sure. They could be an evening patrol 
of either side. But you always said pursuit planes were ours be- 
cause it made people feel better. Bombers were another matter. 

Anselmo evidently felt the sarhe. “They are ours,” he said. “I 
recognize them. They are Moscas." 

“Good,” said Robert Jordan. “They seem to me to be Moscas, 
too.” 

“They are Moscas," Anselmo said. 

Robert Jordan could have put the glasses on them and been 
sure instantly but he preferred not to. It made no difference to 
him who they were tonight and if it pleased the old man to have 
them be ours, he did not want to take them away. Now, as they 
moved out of sight toward Segovia, they did not look to be the 
green, red wing-tipped, low wing Russian conversion of the Boe- 
ing P32 that the Spaniards called Moscas. You could not see the 
colors but the cut was wrong. No. It was a Fascist Patrol coming 
home. 

The sentry was still standing at the far box with his back turned. 

“Let us go,” Robert Jordan said. He started up the hill, moving 
carefully and taking advantage of the cover until they were out of 
sight. Anselmo followed him at a hundred yards distance. When 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


39 

they were well out of sight of the bridge, he stopped and the old 
man came up and went into the lead and climbed steadily through 
the pass, up the steep slope in the dark. 

“We have a formidable aviation,” the old man said happily. 

“Yes.” 

“And we will win.” 

“We have to win.” 

“Yes. And after we have won you must come to hunt.” 

“To hunt what.i*” 

“The boar, the bear, the wolf, the ibex ” 

“You like to hunt.?” 

“Yes, man. More than anything. We all himt in my village. 
You do not like to hunt.?” 

“No,” said Robert Jordan. “I do not like to kill animals.” 

“With me it is the opposite,” the old man said. “I do not like 
to kill men.” 

“Nobody does except those who are disturbed in the head,” 
Robert Jordan said. “But I feel nothing against it when it is neces- 
sary. When it is for the cause.” 

“It is a different thing, though,” Anselmo said. “In my house, 
when I had a house, and now I have no house, there were the 
tusks of boar I had shot in the lower forest. There were the hides 
of wolves I had shot. In the winter, hunting them in the snow. 
One very big one, I killed at dusk in the outskirts of the village 
on my way home one night in November. There were four 
wolf hides on the floor of my house. They were worn by stepping 
on them but they were wolf hides. There were the horns of ibex 
that I had killed in the high Sierra, and there was an eagle stuffed 
by an embalmer of birds of Avila, with his wings spread, and 
eyes as yellow and real as the eyes of an eagle alive. It was a very 
beautiful thing and all of those things gave me great pleasure to 
contemplate.” 

“Yes,” said Robert Jordan. 

“On the door of the church of my village was nailed the paw 
of a bear that I killed in the spring, finding him on a hillside in 
the snow, overturning a log with this same paw.” 

“When was this.?” 

“Six years ago. And every time I saw that paw, like the hand of 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


40 

a man, but with those long claws, dried and nailed through the 
palm to the door of the church, I received a pleasure.” 

“Of pride?” 

“Of pride of remembrance of the encounter with the bear on 
that hillside in the early spring. But of the killing of a man, who 
is a man as we are, there is nothing good that remains.” 

“You can’t nail his paw to the church,” Robert Jordan said. 

“No. Such a barbarity is unthinkable. Yet the hand of a man is 
like the paw of a bear.” 

“So is the chest of a man like the chest of a bear,” Robert 
Jordan said. “With the hide removed from the bear, there are 
many similarities in the muscles.” 

“Yes,” Ansehno said. “The gypsies believe the bear to be a 
brother of man.” 

“So do the Indians in America,” Robert Jordan said. “And when 
they kill a bear they apologize to him and ask his pardon. They put 
his skull in a tree and they ask him to forgive them before they 
leave it.” 

“The gypsies believe the bear to be a brother to man because 
he has the same body beneath his hide, because he drinks beer, be- 
cause he enjoys music and because he likes to dance.” 

“So also believe the Indians.” 

“Are the Indians then gypsies?” 

“No. But they believe alike about the bear.” 

“Clearly. The gypsies also beUeve he is a brother because he steals 
for pleasure.” 

“Have you gypsy blood?” 

‘TSio. But I have seen much of them and clearly, since the move- 
ment, more. There are many in the hills. To them it is not a sin 
to kill outside the tribe. They deny this but it is true.” 

“Like the Moors.” 

“Yes. But the gypsies have many laws they do not admit to 
having. In the war many gypsies have become bad again as they 
were in the olden times.” 

“They do not understand why the war is made. They do not 
know for what we fight.” 

“No,” Anselmo said. “They only know now there is a war and 
people may kill again as in the olden times without a surety’ of 
punishment.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 4I 

“You have killed?” Robert Jordan asked in the intimacy of the 
dark and of their day together. 

“Yes. Several times. But not v^^ith pleasure. To me it is a sin to 
kill a man. Even Fascists whom we must kill. To me there is a 
great difference between the bear and the man and I do not beHeve 
the wizardry of the gypsies about the brotherhood with animals. 
No. I am against all killing of men.” 

“Yet you have killed.” 

“Yes. And will again. But if I live later, I will try to live in such 
a way, doing no harm to any one, that it will be forgiven.” 

“By whom?” 

“Who knows ? Since we do not have God here any more, neither 
His Son nor the Holy Ghost, who forgives? I do not know.” 

“You have not God any more?” 

“No. Man. Certainly not. If there were God, never would He 
have permitted what I have seen with my eyes. Let them have 
God.” 

“They claim Him.” 

“Clearly I miss Him, having been brought up in religion. But 
now a man must be responsible to himself.” 

“Then it is thyself who will forgive thee for killing.” 

“I believe so,” Anselmo said. “Since you put it clearly in that 
way I believe that must be it. But with or without God, I think it is 
a sin to kill. To take the life of another is to me very grave. I will 
do it whenever necessary but I am not of the race of Pablo.” 

“To win a war we must kill our enemies. That has always been 
true.” 

“Clearly. In war we must kill. But I have very rare ideas,” An- 
selmo said. 

They were walking now close together in the dark and he spoke 
softly, sometimes turning his head as he climbed. “I would not 
kill even a Bishop. I would not kill a proprietor of any kind. I 
would make them work each day as we have worked in the fields 
and as we work in the mountains with the timber, all of the rest 
of their lives. So they would see what man is born to. That they 
should sleep where we sleep. That they should eat as we eat. But 
above all that they should work. Thus they would learn.” 

“And they would survive to enslave thee again.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


42 

“To kill them teaches nothing,” Anselmo said. “You cannot ex- 
terminate them because from their seed comes more with greater 
hatred. Prison is nothing. Prison only makes hatred. That all our 
enemies should learn.” 

“But still thou hast killed.” 

“Yes,” Anselmo said. “Many times and will again. But not with 
pleasure and regarding it as a sin.” 

“And the sentry. You joked of killing the sentry.” 

“That was in joke. I would kill the sentry. Yes. Certainly and 
with a clear heart considering our task. But not with pleasure.” 

“We will leave them to those who enjoy it,” Robert Jordan said. 
“There are eight and five. That is thirteen for those who enjoy it.” 

“There are many of those who enjoy it,” Anselmo said in the 
dark. “We have many of those. More of those than of men who 
would serve for a batde.” 

“Hast thou ever been in a battle?” 

“Nay,” the old man said. “We fought in Segovia at the start of 
the movement but we were beaten and we ran. I ran with the 
others. We did not truly understand what we were doing, nor how 
it should be done. Also I had only a shotgun with cartridges of 
large buckshot and the guardia civil had Mausers. I could not 
hit them with buckshot at a hundred yards, and at. three hundred 
yards they shot us as they wished as though we were rabbits. They 
shot much and well and we were like sheep before them.” He was 
silent. Then asked, “Thinkest thou there will be a batde at the 
bridge?” 

“There is a chance.” 

“1 have never seen a battle without running,” Anselmo said. ‘1 
do not know how I would comport myself. I am an old man and 
I have wondered.” 

“I will respond for thee,” Robert Jordan told him. 

“And hast thou been in many batdes?” 

“Several.” 

“And what thinkest thou of this of the bridge?” 

“First I think of the bridge. That is my business. It is not diffi- 
cult to destroy the bridge. Then we will make the dispositions for 
the rest. For the preliminaries. It will all be written.” 

“Very few of these people read,” Anselmo said. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 43 

“It w U be written for every one’s knowledge so that all know, but 
also it \i^ill be clearly explained.” 

“I will do that to which I am assigned,” Anselmo said. “But 
remembering the shooting in Segovia, if there is to be a battle or 
even much exchanging of shots, I would wish to have it very 
clear what I must do under all circumstances to avoid running. 
I remember that I had a great tendency to run at Segovia.” 

“We will be together,” Robert Jordan told him. “I will tell you 
what there is to do at all times.” 

“Then there is no problem,” Anselmo said. “I can do anything 
that I am ordered.” 

“For us will be the bridge and the battle, should there be one,” 
Robert Jordan said and saying it in the dark, he felt a little theat- 
rical but it sounded well in Spanish. 

“It should be of the highest interest,” Anselmo said and hearing 
him say it honestly and clearly and with no pose, neither the Eng- 
lish pose of understatement nor any Latin bravado, Robert Jordan 
thought he was very lucky to have this old man and having seen 
the bridge and worked out and simplified the problem it would 
have been to surprise the posts and blow it in a normal way, he 
resented Golz’s orders, and the necessity for them. He resented 
them for what they could do to him and for what they could do 
to this old man. They were bad orders all right for those who 
would have to carry them out. 

And that is not the way to think, he told himself, and there is not 
you, and there are no people that things must not happen to. 
Neither you nor this old man is anything. You are instruments 
to do your duty. There are necessary orders that are no fault of 
yours and there is a bridge and that bridge can be the point on 
which the future of the human race can turn. As it can turn on 
everything that happens in this war. You have only one thing to 
do and you must do it. Only one thing, hell, he thought. If it were 
one thing it was easy. Stop worrying, you windy bastard, he said 
to himself. Think about something else. 

So he thought about the girl Maria, with her skin, the hair and 
the eyes all the same golden tawny brown, the hair a little darker 
than the rest but it would be lighter as her skin tanned deeper, the 
smooth skin, pale gold on the surface with a darkness underneath. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


44 

Smooth it would be, all of her body smooth, and she mov< d awk- 
wardly as though there were something of her and about her that 
embarrassed her as though it were visible, though it was not, but 
only in her mind. And she blushed when he looked at her, and she 
sitting, her hands clasped around her knees and the shirt open at 
the throat, the cup of her breasts uptilted against the shirt, and as 
he thought of her, his throat was choky and there was a difficulty 
in walking and he and Anselmo spoke no more until the old man 
said, “Now we go down through these rocks and to the camp.” 

As they came through the rocks in the dark, a man spoke to 
them, “Halt. Who goes.'*” They heard a rifle bolt snick as it was 
drawn back and then the knock against the wood as it was pushed 
forward and down on the stock. 

“Comrades,” Anselmo said, 

“What comrades.?” 

“Comrades of Pablo,” the old man told him. “Dost thou not 
know us.?” 

“Yes,” the voice said. “But it is an order. Have you the pass- 
word.?” 

“No. We come from below.” 

“I know,” the man said in the dark. “You come from the 
bridge. I know all of that. The order is not mine. You must know 
the second half of a password.” 

“What is the first half then.?” Robert Jordan said. 

“I have forgotten it,” the man said in the dark and laughed. 
“Go then unprintably to the campfire with thy obscene dyna- 
mite.” 

“That is called guerilla discipline,” Anselmo said. ‘TJncock thy 
piece.” 

“It is uncocked,” the man said in the dark. “I let it down with 
my thumb and forefinger.” 

“Thou wilt do that with a Mauser sometime which has no 
knurl on the bolt and it will fire.” 

“This is a Mauser,” the man said. “But I have a grip of thumb 
and forefinger beyond description. Always I let it down that way.” 

“Where is the rifle pointed?” asked Anselmo into the dark. 

“At thee,” the man said, “all the time that I descended the bolt. 
And when thou comest to the camp, order that some one should 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


45 

relieve me because I have indescribable and unprintable hunger 
and I have forgotten the password.” 

“How art thou called.?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“Agustin,” the man said, “I am called Agustin and I am dying 
with boredom in this spot.” 

“We will take the message,” Robert Jordan said and he thought 
how the word aburmiento which means boredom in Spanish was 
a word no peasant would use in any other language. Yet it is one 
of the most common words in the mouth of a Spaniard of any 
class. 

“Listen to me,” Agustin said, and coming close he put his 
hand on Robert Jordan’s shoulder. Then striking a flint and steel 
together he held it up and blowing on the end of the cork, looked 
at the young man’s face in its glow. 

“You look like the other one,” he said. “But something different. 
Listen,” he put the lighter down and stood holding his rifle. “Tell 
me this. Is it true about the bridge.?” 

“What about the bridge.?” 

“That we blow up an obscene bridge and then have to ob- 
scenely well obscenity ourselves off out of these mountains.?” 

“I know not.” 

“You know not,” Agustm said. “What a barbarity! Whose then 
is the dynamite?” 

“Mine.” 

“And knowest thou not what it is for? Don’t tell me tales,” 

“I know what it is for and so will you in time,” Robert Jordan 
said. “But now we go to the camp.” 

“Go to the unprintable,” Agustin said. “And unprint thyself. 
But do you want me to tell you something of service to you?” 

“Yes,” said Robert Jordan. “If it is not unprintable,” naming 
the principal obscenity that had larded the conversation. The man, 
Agustin, spoke so obscenely, coupling an obscenity to every noun 
as an adjective, using the same obscenity as a verb, that Robert Jor- 
dan wondered if he could speak a straight sentence. Agustin 
laughed in the dark when he heard the word. “It is a way of 
speaking I have. Maybe it is ugly. Who knows? Each one speaks 
according to his manner. Listen to me. The bridge is nothing to 
me. As well the bridge as another thing. Also I have a boredom 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


46 

in these mountains. That we should go if it is needed. These 
mountains say nothing to me. That we should leave them. But I 
would say one thing. Guard well thy explosive.” 

“Thank you,” Robert Jordan said. “From thee?” 

“No,” Agustin said. “From people less unprintably equipped 
than I.” 

“So?” asked Robert Jordan. 

“You understand Spanish,” Agustm said seriously now. “Care 
well for thy unprintable explosive.” 

“Thank you.” 

“No. Don’t thank me. Look after thy stuff.” 

“Has anything happened to it?” 

“No, or I would not waste thy time talking in this fashion.” 

“Thank you all the same. We go now to camp.” 

“Good,” said Agustm, “and that they send some one here who 
knows the password.” 

“Will we see you at the camp?” 

“Yes, man. And shortly.” 

“Come on,” Robert Jordan said to Anselmo. 

They were walking down the edge of the meadow now and 
there was a gray mist. The grass was lush underfoot after the 
pine-needle floor of the forest and the dew on the grass wet 
through their canvas rope-soled shoes. Ahead, through the trees, 
Robert Jordan could see a light where he knew the mouth of the 
cave must be. 

“Agustin is a very good man,” Anselmo said. “He speaks very 
filthily and always in jokes but he is a very serious man.” 

“You know him well?” 

“Yes. For a long time. I have much confidence in him.” 

“And what he says?” 

“Yes, man. This Pablo is bad now, as you could see.” 

“And the best thing to do?” 

“One shall guard it at all times.” 

“Who?” 

“You. Me. The woman and Agustin. Since he sees the danger.” 

“Did you think things were as bad as they are here?” 

“No,” Anselmo said. “They have gone bad very fast. But it was 
necessary to come here. This is the country of Pablo and of El 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 47 

Sordo. In their country we must deal with them unless it is some- 
thing that can be done alone.” 

“And El Sordo?” 

“Good,” Anselmo said. “As good as the other is bad.” 

“You believe now that he is truly bad?” 

“All afternoon I have thought of it and since we have heard 
what we have heard, I think now, yes. Truly.” 

“It would not be better to leave, speaking of another bridge, and 
obtain men from other bands?” 

“No,” Anselmo said. “This is his country. You could not move 
that he would not know it. But one must move with much pre- 
cautions.” 


CHAPTER FOUR 


They came down to the mouth of the cave, where a light shone 
out from the edge of a blanket that hung over the opening. The two 
packs were at the foot of the tree covered with a canvas and Rob- 
ert Jordan knelt down and felt the canvas wet and stiff over them. 
In the dark he felt under the canvas in the outside pocket of one 
of the packs and took out a leather-covered flask and sUpped it in 
his pocket. Unlocking the long barred padlocks that passed through 
the grommet that closed the opening of the mouth of the packs, 
and untying the drawstring at the top of each pack, he felt inside 
them and verified their contents with his hands. Deep in one pack 
he felt the bundled blocks in the sacks, the sacks wrapped in the 
sleeping robe, and tying the strings of that and pushing the lock 
shut again, he put his hands into the other and felt the sharp 
wood outline of the box of the old exploder, the cigar box with 
the caps, each litde cylinder wrapped round and round with its 
two wires (the lot of them packed as carefully as he had packed 
his collection of wild bird eggs when he was a boy), the stock 
of the submachine gun, disconnected from the barrel and wrapped 
in his leather jacket, the two pans and five clips in one of the inner 
pockets of the big pack-sack and the small coils of copper wire 
and the big coil of light insulated wire in the other. In the pocket 
with the wire he felt his plyers and the two wooden awls for 
making holes in the end of the blocks and then, from the last in- 
side pocket, he took a big box of the Russian cigarettes of the 
lot he had from Golz’s headquarters and tying the mouth of the 
pack shut, he pushed the lock in, buckled the flaps down and 
again covered both packs with the canvas. Ansehno had gone on 
into the cave. 

Robert Jordan stood up to follow him, then reconsidered and, 
hfting the canvas off the two packs, picked them up, one in each 
hand, and started with them, just able to carry them, for the mouth 
of the cave. He laid one pack down and lifted the blanket aside, 

48 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 49 

then with his head stooped and with a pack in each hand, carrying 
by the leather shoulder straps, he went into the cave. 

It was warm and smoky in th'; cave. There was a table along 
one wall with a tallow candle stuck in a botde on it and at the 
table were seated Pablo, three men he did not know, and the 
gypsy, Rafael. The candle made shadows on the wall behind the 
men and Anselmo stood where he had come in to the right of the 
table. The wife of Pablo was standing over the charcoal fire on the 
open fire hearth in the corner of the cave. The girl knelt by her 
stirring in an iron pot. She lifted the wooden spoon out and looked 
at Robert Jordan as he stood there in the doorway and he saw, in 
the glow from the fire the woman was blowing with a bellows, the 
girl’s face, her arm and the drops running down from the spoon 
and dropping into the iron pot. 

“What do you carry.?” Pablo said. 

“My things,” Robert Jordan said and set the two packs down a 
litde way apart where the cave opened out on the side away from 
the table. 

“Are they not well outside.?” Pablo asked. 

“Some one might trip over them in the dark,” Robert Jordan 
said and walked over to the table and laid the box of cigarettes 
on it. 

“I do not like to have dynamite here in the cave,” Pablo said. 

“It is far from the fire,” Robert Jordan said. “Take some cig- 
arettes.” He ran his thumbnail along the side of the paper box 
with the big colored figure of a warship on the cover and pushed 
the box toward Pablo. 

Anselmo brought him a rawhide-covered stool and he sat down 
at the table. Pablo looked at him as though he were going to speak 
again, then reached for the cigarettes. 

Robert Jordan pushed them toward the others. He was not look- 
ing at them yet. But he noted one man took cigarettes and two 
did not. All of his concentration was on Pablo. 

“How goes it, gypsy.?” he said to Rafael. 

■*Tjood,” the gypsy said. Robert Jordan could tell they had been 
talking about him when he came in. Even the gypsy was not at 
ease. 

“She is going to let you eat again.?” Robert Jordan asked the 
gypsy. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


50 

“Yes. Why not.?” the gypsy said. It was a long way from the 
friendly joking they had together in the afternoon. 

The woman of Pablo said nothing and went on blowing up the 
coals of the fire. 

“One called Agustin says he dies of boredom above,” Robert 
Jordan said. 

“That doesn’t kill,” Pablo said. “Let him die a little.” 

“Is there wine.?” Robert Jordan asked the table at large, lean- 
ing forward, his hands on the table. 

“There is little left,” Pablo said sullenly. Robert Jordan decided 
he had better look at the other three and try to see where he stood. 

“In that case, let me have a cup of water. Thou,” he called to 
the girl. “Bring me a cup of water.” 

The girl looked at the woman, who said nothing, and gave no 
sign of having heard, then she went to a kettle containing water 
and dipped a cup full. She brought it to the table and put it down 
before him. Robert Jordan smiled at her. At the same time he 
sucked in on his stomach muscles and swung a little to the left on 
his stool so that his pistol slipped around on his belt closer to where 
he wanted it. He reached his hand down toward his hip pocket 
and Pablo watched him. He knew they all were watching him, 
too, but he watched only Pablo. His hand came up from the hip 
pocket with the leather-covered flask and he unscrewed the top 
and then, lifting the cup, drank half the water and poured very 
slowly from the flask into the cup. 

“It is too strong for thee or I would give thee some,” he said to 
the girl and smiled at her again. “There is Htde left or I would ofier 
some to thee,” he said to Pablo. 

“I do not like anis,” Pablo said. 

The acrid smell had carried across the table and he had picked 
out the one familiar component. 

“Good,” said Robert Jordan. “Because there is very litde left.” 

“What drink is that.?” the gypsy asked. 

“A medicine,” Robert Jordan said. “Do you want to taste it.?” 

“What is it for.?” 

“For everything,” Robert Jordan said. “It cures ever)’thing. If you 
have anything wrong this will cure it.” 

“Let me taste it,” the gypsy said. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


51 

Robert Jordan pushed the cup toward him. It was a milky yellow 
now with the water and he hoped the gypsy would not take more 
than a swallow. There was very little of it left and one cup of it 
took the place of the evening papers, of all the old evenings in cafes, 
of all chestnut trees that would be in bloom now in this month, 
of the great slow horses of the outer boulevards, of book shops, of 
kiosques, and of galleries, of the Parc Montsouris, of the Stade 
Buffalo, and of the Butte Chaumont, of the Guaranty Trust Com- 
pany and the He de la Cit4 of Foyot’s old hotel, and of being able to 
read and relax in the evening; of all the things he had enjoyed and 
forgotten and that came back to him when he tasted that opaque, 
bitter, tongue-numbing, brain-warming, stomach-warming, idea- 
changing liquid alchemy. 

The gypsy made a face and handed the cup back. “It smells of 
anis but it is bitter as gall,” he said. “It is better to be sick than 
have that medicine.” 

“That’s the wormwood,” Robert Jordan told him. “In this, the 
real absinthe, there is wormwood. It’s supposed to rot your brain 
out but I don’t believe it. It only changes the ideas. You should 
pour water into it very slowly, a few drops at a time. But I poured 
it into the water.” 

“What are you saying?” Pablo said angrily, feeling the mockery. 

“Explaining the medicine,” Robert Jordan told him and grin- 
ned. “I bought it in Madrid. It was the last bottle and it’s lasted 
me three weeks.” He took a big swallow of it and felt it coasting 
over his tongue in delicate anaesthesia. He looked at Pablo and 
grinned again. 

“How’s business?” he asked. 

Pablo did not answer and Robert Jordan looked carefully at the 
other three men at the table. One had a large flat face, flat and 
brown as a Serrano ham with a nose flattened and broken, and the 
long thin Russian cigarette, projecting at an angle, made the face 
look even flatter. This man had short gray hair and a gray stubble 
of beard and wore the usual black smock buttoned at the neck. He 
looked down at the table when Robert Jordan looked at him but 
his eyes were steady and they did not blink. The other two were 
evidently brothers. They looked much alike and were both short, 
heavily built, dark haired, their hair growing low on their fore- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


52 

heads, dark-eyed and brown. One had a scar across his forehead 
above his left eye and as he looked at them, they looked back at 
him steadily. One looked to be about twenty-six or eight, the other 
perhaps two years older. 

“What are you looking at.?” one brother, the one with the scar, 
asked. 

“Thee,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Do you see anything rare.?” 

“No,” said Robert Jordan. “Have a cigarette?” 

“Why not?” the brother said. He had not taken any before. 
“These are like the other had. He of the train.” 

“Were you at the train?” 

“We were all at the train,” the brother said quietly. “All except 
the old man.” 

“That is what we should do now,” Pablo said. “Another train.” 

“We can do that,” Robert Jordan said. “After the bridge.” 

He could see that the wife of Pablo had turned now from the 
fire and was Ustening. When he said the word bridge every one 
was quiet. 

“After the bridge,” he said again deliberately and took a sip of 
the absinthe. I might as well bring it on, he thought. It’s coming 
anyway. 

“I do not go for the bridge,” Pablo said, looking down at the 
table. “Neither me nor my people.” 

Robert Jordan said nothing. He looked at Anselmo and raised 
the cup. “Then we shall do it alone, old one,” he said and smiled. 

“Without this coward,” Anselmo said. 

“What did you say?” Pablo spoke to the old man. 

“Nothing for thee. I did not speak to thee,” Anselmo told 
him. 

Robert Jordan now looked past the table to where the wife of 
Pablo was standing by the fire. She had said nothing yet, nor given 
any sign. But now she said something he could not hear to the 
girl and the girl rose from the cooking fire, slipped along the wall, 
opened the blanket that hung over the mouth of the cave and went 
out. I think it is going to come now, Robert Jordan thought. I be- 
lieve this is it. I did not want it to be this way but this seems to be 
the way it is. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 53 

“Then we will do the bridge without thy aid,” Robert Jordan 
said to Pablo. 

“No,” Pablo said, and Robert Jordan watched his face sweat. 
“Thou wilt blow no bridge here.” 

“No?” 

“Thou wilt blow no bridge,” Pablo said heavily. 

“And thou?” Robert Jordan spoke to the wife of Pablo who was 
standing, still and huge, by the fire. She turned toward them and 
said, “I am for the bridge.” Her face was lit by the fire and it was 
flushed and it shone warm and dark and handsome now in the 
firelight as it was meant to be. 

“What do you say?” Pablo said to her and Robert Jordan saw 
the betrayed look on his face and the sweat on his forehead as he 
turned his head. 

“I am for the bridge and against thee,” the wife of Pablo said. 
“Nothing more.” 

“I am also for the bridge,” the man with the flat face and the 
broken nose said, crushing the end of the cigarette on the 
table. 

“To me the bridge means nothing,” one of the brothers said. “I 
am for the mujer of Pablo.” 

“Equally,” said the other brother. 

“Equally,” the gypsy said. 

Robert Jordan watching Pablo and as he watched, letting his 
right hand hang lower and lower, ready if it should be necessary, 
half hoping it would be (feeling perhaps that were the simplest 
and easiest yet not wishing to spoil what had gone so well, know- 
ing how quickly all of a family, all of a clan, all of a band, can 
turn against a stranger in a quarrel, yet thinking what could be 
done with the hand were the simplest and best and surgically the 
most sound now that this had happened), saw also the wife of 
Pablo standing there and watched her blush proudly and soundly 
and healthily as the allegiances were given. 

“I am for the Republic,” the woman of Pablo said happily. “And 
the Republic is the bridge. Afterwards we will have time for other 
projects.” 

“And thou,” Pablo said bitterly. “With your head of a seed bull 
and your heart of a whore. Thou thinkest there will be an after- 


54 FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 

wards from this bridge? Thou hast an idea of that which will 
pass?” 

“That which must pass,” the woman of Pablo said. “That which 
must pass, will pass.” 

“And it means nothing to thee to be hunted then like a beast 
after this thing from which we derive no profit? Nor to die in it?” 

“Nothing,” the woman of Pablo said. “And do not try to fright- 
en me, coward.” 

“Coward,” Pablo said bitterly. “You treaf a man as coward be- 
cause he has a tactical sense. Because he can see the results of an 
idiocy in advance. It is not cowardly to know what is foohsh.” 

“Neither is it foolish to know what is cowardly,” said Anselmo, 
unable to resist making the phrase. 

“Do you want to die?” Pablo said to him seriously and Robert 
Jordan saw how unrhetorical was the question. 

“No.” 

“Then watch thy mouth. You talk too much about things you 
do not understand. Don’t you see that this is serious?” he said 
almost pitifully. “Am I the only one who sees the seriousness of 
this?” 

I believe so, Robert Jordan thought. Old Pablo, old boy, I be- 
lieve so. Except me. You can see it and I see it and the woman 
read it in my hand but she doesn’t see it, yet. Not yet she doesn’t 
see it. 

“Am I a leader for nothing?” Pablo asked. “I know what I speak 
of. You others do not know. This old man talks nonsense. He is 
an old man who is nothing but a messenger and a guide for for- 
eigners. This foreigner comes here to do a thing for the good of 
the foreigners. For his good we must be sacrificed. I am for the 
good and the safety of all.” 

“Safety,” the wife of Pablo said. “There is no such thing as 
safety. There are so many seeking safety here now that they make 
a great danger. In seeking safety now you lose all.” 

She stood now by the table with the big spoon in her hand. 

“There is safety,” Pablo said. “Within the danger there is the 
safety of knowing what chances to take. It is hke the bull fighter 
who knowing what he is doing, takes no chances and is safe.” 

“Until he is gored,” the woman said bitterly. “How many times 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


55 

have I heard matadors talk like that before they took a goring. 
How often have I heard Finite say that it is ail knowledge and 
that the bull never gored the man; rather the man gored himself 
on the horn of the bull. Always do they talk that way in their 
arrogance before a goring. Afterwards we visit them in the clinic.” 
Now she was mimicking a visit to a bedside, “ ‘Hello, old timer. 
Hello,’ ” she boomed. Then, " ‘Buenas, Compadre^ How goes it. 
Pilar.?’” imitating the weak voice of the wounded bull fighter. 
“ ‘How did this happen, Finito, Chico, how did this dirty accident 
occur to thee?”’ booming it out in her own voice. Then talking 
weak and small, “ ‘It is nothing, woman. Pilar, it is nothing. It 
shouldn’t have happened. I killed him very well, you understand. 
Nobody could have killed him better. Then having killed him 
exactly as I should and him absolutely dead, swaying on his legs, 
and ready to fall of his own weight, I walked away from him with 
a certain amount of arrogance and much style and from the back 
he throws me this horn between the cheeks of my buttocks and it 
comes out of my liver.’ ” She commenced to laugh, dropping the 
imitation of the almost effeminate bull fighter’s voice and boom- 
ing again now. “You and your safety! Did I live nine years with 
three of the worst paid matadors in the world not to learn about 
fear and about safety? Speak to me of anything but safety. And 
thee. What illusions I put in thee and how they have turned out! 
From one year of war thou hast become 'lazy, a drunkard and a 
coward.” 

“In that way thou hast no right to speak,” Pablo said. “And 
less even before the people and a stranger.” 

“In that way will I speak,” the wife of Pablo went on. “Have 
you not heard? Do you still believe that you command here?” 

“Yes,” Pablo said. “Here I command.” 

“Not in joke,” the woman said. “Here I command! Haven’t 
you heard la gente? Here no one commands but me. You can stay 
if you wish and eat of the food and drink of the wine, but not too 
bloody much, and share in the work if thee wishes. But here I 
command.” 

“I should shoot thee and the foreigner both,” Pablo said sul- 
lenly. 

“Try it,” the woman said. “And see what happens.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


56 

“A cup of water for me,” Robert Jordan said, not taking his eyes 
from the man with his sullen heavy head and the woman standing 
proudly and confidently holding the big spoon as authoritatively 
as though it were a baton. 

“Maria,” called the woman of Pablo and when the girl came in 
the door she said, “Water for this comrade.” 

Robert Jordan reached for his flask and, bringing the flask out, 
as he brought it he loosened the pistol in the holster and swung 
it on top of his thigh. He poured a second absinthe into his cup 
and took the cup of water the girl brought him and commenced 
to drip it into the cup, a Uttle at a time. The girl stood at his elbow, 
watching him. 

“Outside,” the woman of Pablo said to her, gesturing with the 
spoon. 

“It is cold outside,” the girl said, her cheek close to Robert 
Jordan’s, watching what was happening in the cup where the 
liquor was clouding. 

“Maybe,” the woman of Pablo said. “But in here it is too hot” 
Then she said, kindly, “It is not for long.” 

The girl shook her head and went out. 

I don’t think he is going to take this much more, Robert Jordan 
thought to himself. He held the cup in one hand and his other hand 
rested, frankly now, on the pistol. He had slipped the safety catch 
and he felt the worn comfort of the checked grip chafed almost 
smooth and touched the round, cool companionship of the trigger 
guard. Pablo no longer looked at him but only at the woman. She 
went on, “Listen to me, drunkard. You understand who commands 
here.?” 

“I command.” 

“No. Listen. Take the wax from thy hairy ears. Listen well. I 
command.” 

Pablo looked at her and you could tell nothing of what he was 
thinking by his face. He looked at her quite deliberately and then 
he looked across the table at Robert Jordan. He looked at him 
a long time contemplatively and then he looked back at the woman, 
again. 

“All right. You command,” he said. “And if you want he can 
command too. And the two of you can go to hell.” He was look- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


57 

ing the woman straight in the face and he was neither dominated 
by her nor seemed to be much affected by her, “It is possible that 
I am lazy and that I drink too much. You may consider me a 
coward but there you are mistaken. But I am not stupid.” He 
paused. “That you should command and that you should like it. 
Now if you are a woman as well as a commander, that we should 
have something to eat.” 

“Maria,” the woman of Pablo called. 

The girl put her head inside the blanket across the cave mouth. 
“Enter now and serve the supper.” 

The girl came in and walked across to the low table by the 
hearth and picked up the enameled-ware bowls and brought them 
to the table. 

“There is wine enough for all,” the woman of Pablo said to 
Robert Jordan. “Pay no attention to what that drunkard says. 
When this is finished we will get more. Finish that rare thing 
thou art drinking and take a cup of wine.” 

Robert Jordan swallowed down the last of the absinthe, feeling 
it, gulped that way, making a warm, small, fume-rising, wet, chem- 
ical-change-producing heat in him and passed the cup for wine. 
The girl dipped it full for him and smiled. 

“Well, did you see the bridge.'*” the gypsy asked. The others, 
who had not opened their mouths after the change of allegiance, 
were all leaning forward to listen now. 

“Yes,” Robert Jordan said. “It is something easy to do. Would 
you like me to show you.?” 

“Yes, man. With much interest.” 

Robert Jordan took out the notebook from his shirt pocket and 
showed them the sketches. 

“Look how it seems,” the flat-faced man, who was named Primi- 
tivo, said. “It is the bridge itself.” 

Robert Jordan with the point of the pencil explained how the 
bridge should be blown and the reason for the placing of the 
charges. 

“What simplicity,” the scarred-faced brother, who was called 
Andres, said. “And how do you explode them.?” 

Robert Jordan explained that too and, as he showed them, he felt 
the girl’s arm resting on his shoulder as she looked. The woman 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


58 

of Pablo was watching too. Only Pablo took no interest, sitting by 
himself with a cup of wine that he replenished by dipping into the 
big bowl Maria had filled from the wine-skin that hung to the 
left of the entrance to the cave. 

“Hast thou done much of this?” the girl asked Robert Jordan 
softly. 

“Yes.” 

“And can we see the doing of it?” 

“Yes. Why not?” 

“You will see it,” Pablo said from his end of the table. “I beUeve 
that you will see it.” 

“Shut up,” the woman of Pablo said to him and suddenly re- 
membering what she had seen in the hand in the afternoon she 
was wildly, unreasoningly angry. “Shut up, coward. Shut up, bad 
luck bird. Shut up, murderer.” 

“Good,” Pablo said. “I shut up. It Is thou who commands now 
and you should continue to look at the pretty pictures. But re- 
member that I am not stupid.” 

The woman of Pablo could feel her rage changing to sorrow 
and to a feeling of the thwarting of all hope and promise. She 
knew this feeling from when she was a girl and she knew the 
things that caused it all through her life. It came now suddenly 
and she put it away from her and would not let it touch her, 
neither her nor the Republic, and she said, “Now we will eat. 
Serve the bowls from the pot, Maria.” 


CHAPTER FIVE 


Robert Jordan pushed aside the saddle blanket that hung over the 
mouth of the cave and, stepping out, took a deep breath of the cold 
night air. The mist had cleared away and the stars were out. There 
was no wind, and, outside now of the warm air of the cave, heavy 
with smoke of both tobacco and charcoal, with the odor of cooked 
rice and meat, saffron, pimentos, and oil, the tarry, wine-spilled 
smell of the big skin hung beside the door, hung by the neck and 
the four legs extended, wine drawn from a plug fitted in one leg, 
wine that spilled a little onto the earth of the floor, settling the dust 
smell; out now from the odors of different herbs whose names he 
did not know that hung in bunches from the ceiling, with long ropes 
of garlic, away now from the copper-penny, red wine and garlic, 
horse sweat and man sweat dried in the clothing (acrid and gray the 
man sweat, sweet and sickly the dried brushed-off lather of horse 
sweat), of the men at the table, Robert Jordan breathed deeply of 
the clear night air of the mountains that smelled of the pines and of 
the dew on the grass in the meadow by the stream. Dew had fallen 
heavily since the wind had dropped, but, as he stood there, he thought 
there would be frost by morning. 

As he stood breathing deep and then listening to the night, he 
heard first, firing far away, and then he heard an owl cry in the 
timber below, where the horse corral was slung. Then inside the 
cave he could hear the gypsy starting to sing and the soft chording 
of a guitar. 

“I had an inheritance from my father” the artificially hardened 
voice rose harshly and hung there. Then went on: 

“It was the moon and the sun 
“And though I roam all over the world 
“The spending of it's never done.” 

The guitar thudded with chorded applause for the singer. “Good,” 
Robert Jordan heard some one say. “Give us the Catalan, gypsy.” 
“No.” 


59 


6o 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“Yes. Yes. The Catalan.” 

“All right,” the gypsy said and sang mournfully, 

“My nose is fiat. 

“My face is blacl^. 

“But still I am a man!’ 

“Ole!” some one said. “Go on, gypsy!” 

The gypsy’s voice rose tragically and mockingly. 

“Than\ God I am a Negro. 

“And not a Catalanl” 

“There is much noise,” Pablo’s voice said. “Shut up, gypsy.” 

“Yes,” he heard the woman’s voice. “There is too much noise. 
You could call the guardia civil with that voice and still it has no 
quality.” 

“I know another verse,” the gypsy said and the guitar commenced. 

“Save it,” the woman told him . 

The guitar stopped. 

“I am not good in voice tonight. So there is no loss,” the gypsy 
said end pushing the blanket aside he came out into the dark. 

Robert Jordan watched him walk over to a tree and then come 
toward him. 

“Roberto,” the gypsy said softly. 

“Yes, Rafael,” he said. He knew the gypsy had been affected by 
the wine from his voice. He himself had drunk the two absinthes 
and some wine but his head was clear and cold from the strain of the 
difficulty with Pablo. 

“Why didst thou not kill Pablo?” the gypsy said very sofdy. 

“Why kill him?” 

“You have to kill him sooner or later. Why did you not approve 
of the moment?” 

“Do you speak seriously?” 

“What do you think that all waited for? What do you think the 
woman sent the girl away for? Do you beheve that it is possible to 
continue after what has been said?” 

“That you all should kill him.” 

“Que va!’ the gypsy said quietly. “That is your business. Three or 
four times we waited for you to kill him. Pablo has no friends.” 

“I had the idea,” Robert Jordan said. “But I left it.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 6l 

“Surely all could see that. Every one noted your preparations. 
Why didn’t you do it?” 

“I thought it might molest you others or the woman.” 

“Que va. And the woman waiting as a whore waits for the flight 
of the big bird. Thou art younger than thou appearest.” 

“It is possible.” 

“Kill him now,” the gypsy urged. 

“That is to assassinate.” 

“Even better,” the gypsy said very softly. “Less danger. Go on. 
KiU him now.” 

“I cannot in that way. It is repugnant to me and it is not how 
one should act for the cause.” 

“Provoke him then,” the gypsy said. “But you have to kill him. 
There is no remedy.” 

As they spoke, the owl flew between the trees with the softness of 
all silence, dropping past them, then rising, the wings beating 
quickly, but with no noise of feathers moving as the bird hunted. 

“Look at him,” the gypsy said in the dark. “Thus should men 
move.” 

“And in the day, blind in a tree with crows around him,” Robert 
Jordan said. 

“Rarely,” said the gypsy. “And then by hazard. Kill him,” he went 
on. “Do not let it become difficult.” 

“Now the moment is passed.” 

“Provoke it,” the gypsy said. “Or take advantage of the quiet.” 

The blanket that closed the cave door opened and fight came 
out. Some one came toward where they stood. 

“It is a beautiful night,” the man said in a heavy, dull voice. “We 
will have good weather.” 

It was Pablo. 

He was smoking one of the Russian cigarettes and in the glow, as 
he drew on the cigarette, his round face showed. They could see his 
heavy, long-armed body in the starlight. 

“Do not pay any attention to the woman,” he said to Robert 
Jordan. In the dark the cigarette glowed bright, then showed in his 
hand as he lowered it. “She is difficult sometimes. She is a good 
woman. Very loyal to the Republic.” The fight of the cigarette 
jerked slightly now as he spoke. He must be talking with it in the 


62 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


corner of his mouth, Robert Jordan thought. “We should have no 
difficulties. We are of accord. I am glad you have come.” The ciga- 
rette glowed brightly. “Pay no attention to arguments,” he said. 
“You are very welcome here.” 

“Excuse me now,” he said. “I go to see how they have picketed the 
horses.” 

He went off through the trees to the edge of the meadow and 
they heard a horse nicker from below. 

“You see.?” the gypsy said. “Now you see.? In this way has the 
moment escaped.” 

Robert Jordan said nothing. 

“I go down there,” the gypsy said angrily. 

“To do what.?” 

"Que va, to do what. At least to prevent him leaving.” 

“Can he leave with a horse from below.?” 

“No.” 

“Then go to the spot where you can prevent him.” 

“Agustin is there.” 

“Go then and speak with Agustm. Tell him that which has 
happened.” 

“Agustin will kill him with pleasure.” 

“Less bad,” Robert Jordan said. “Go then above and tell him all 
as it happened.” 

“And then.?” 

“I go to look below in the meadow.” 

“Good. Man. Good,” he could not see Rafael’s face in the dark but 
he could feel him smiling. “Now you have tightened your garters,” 
the gypsy said approvingly. 

“Go to Agustin,” Robert Jordan said to him. 

“Yes, Roberto, yes,” said the gypsy. 

Robert Jordan walked through the pines, feeling his way from 
tree to tree to the edge of the meadow. Looking across it in the 
darkness, lighter here in the open from the starlight, he saw the dark 
bulks of the picketed horses. He counted them where they were 
scattered between him and the stream. There were five. Robert Jor- 
dan sat down at the foot of a pine tree and looked out across the 
meadow. 

I am tired, he thought, and perhaps my judgment is not good. But 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


\/ 63 

my obligation is the bridge and to fulfill that, I must take no useless 
risk of myself until I complete that duty. Of course it is sometimes 
more of a risk not to accept chances which are necessary to take but 
I have done this so far, trying to let the situation take its own course. 
If it is true, as the gypsy says, that they expected me to kill Pablo 
then I should have done that. But it was never clear to me that they 
did expect that. For a stranger to kill where he must work with the 
people afterwards is very bad. It may be done in action, and it may 
be done if backed by sufficient discipline, but in this case I think it 
would be very bad, although it was a temptation and seemed a short 
and simple way. But I do not believe anything is that short nor that 
simple in this country and, while I trust the woman absolutely, I 
could not tell how she would react to such a drastic thing. One 
dying in such a place can be very ugly, dirty and repugnant. You 
could not tell how she would react. Without the woman there is no 
organization nor any discipline here and with the woman it can be 
very good. It would be ideal if she would kill him, or if the gypsy 
would (but be will not) or if the sentry, Agustin, would. Anselmo 
will if I ask it, though he says he is against all killing. He hates him, 
I believe, and he already trusts me and believes in me as a repre- 
sentative of what he believes in. Only he and the woman really 
believe in the Republic as far as I can see; but it is too early to know 
that yet. 

As his eyes became used to the starlight he could see that Pablo 
was standing by one of the horses. The horse lifted his head from 
grazing; then dropped it impatiently. Pablo was standing by the 
horse, leaning against him, moving with him as he swung with the 
length of the picket rope and patting him on the neck. The horse 
was impatient at the tenderness while he was feeding. Robert Jordan 
could not see what Pablo was doing, nor hear what he was saying 
to the horse, but he could see that he was neither unpicketing nor 
saddling. He sat watching him, trying to think his problem out 
clearly. 

“Thou my big good little pony,” Pablo was saying to the horse in 
the dark; it was the big bay stallion he was speaking to. “Thou 
lovely white-faced big beauty. Thou with the big neck arching like 
the viaduct of my pueblo,” he stopped. “But arching more and much 
finer.” The horse was snatching grass, swinging his head sideways 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


64 

as he pulled, annoyed by the man and his talking. “Thou art no 
woman nor a fool,” Pablo told the bay horse. “Thou, oh, thou, thee, 
thee, my big little pony. Thou art no woman Uke a rock that is 
burning. Thou art no colt of a girl with cropped head and the 
movement of a foal still wet from its mother. Thou dost not insult 
nor lie nor not understand. Thou, oh, thee, oh my good big litde 
pony.” 

It would have been very interesting for Robert Jordan to have 
heard Pablo speaking to the bay horse but he did not hear him 
because now, convinced that Pablo was only down checking on his 
horses, and having decided that it was not a practical move to kill 
him at this time, he stood up and walked back to the cave. Pablo 
stayed in the meadow talking to the horse for a long time. The 
horse understood nothing that he said; only, from the tone of the 
voice, that they were endearments and he had been in the corral all 
day and was hungry now, grazing impatiently at the limits of his 
picket rope, and the man annoyed him. Pablo shifted the picket pin 
finally and stood by the horse, not talking now. The horse went on 
grazing and was relieved now that the man did not bother him. 


CHAPTER SIX 


Inside the cave, Robert Jordan sat on one of the rawhide stools in a 
corner by the fire listening to the woman. She was washing the 
dishes and the girl, Maria, was drying them and putting them away, 
kneeling to place them in the hollow dug in the wall that was used 
as a shelf. 

“It is strange,” she said. “That El Sordo has not come. He should 
have been here an hour ago.” 

“Did you advise him to come.?” 

“No. He comes each night.” 

“Perhaps he is doing something. Some work.” 

“It is possible,” she said. “If he does not come we must go to see 
him tomorrow.” 

“Yes. Is it far from here.?” 

“No. It will be a good trip. I lack exercise.” 

“Can I go?” Maria asked. “May I go too. Pilar?” 

“Yes, beautiful,” the woman said, then turning her big face, “Isn’t 
she pretty.?” she asked Robert Jordan. “How does she seem to thee.? 
A little thin.?” 

“To me she seems very well,” Robert Jordan said. Maria filled his 
cup with wine. “Drink that,” she said. “It will make me seem even 
better. It is necessary to drink much of that for me to seem beau- 
tiful.” 

“Then I had better stop,” Robert Jordan said. “Already thou 
seemest beautiful and more.” 

“That’s the way to talk,” the woman said. “You talk like the 
good ones. What more does she seem.?” 

“Intelligent,” Robert Jordan said lamely. Maria giggled and the 
woman shook her head sadly. “How well you begin and how it 
ends, Don Roberto.” 

“Don’t call me Don Roberto.” 

“It is a joke. Here we say Don Pablo for a joke. As we say the 
Senorita Maria for a joke.” 


6S 


66 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“I don’t joke that way,” Robert Jordan said. “Camarada to me is 
what all should be called with seriousness in this war. In the joking 
commences a rottenness.” 

“Thou art very religious about thy politics,” the woman teased 
him. “Thou makest no jokes.?” 

“Yes. I care much for jokes but not in the form of address. It is 
like a flag.” 

“I could make jokes about a flag. Any flag,” the woman laughed. 
“To me no one can joke of anything. The old flag of yellow and 
gold we called pus and blood. The flag of the RepubUc with the 
purple added we call blood, pus and permanganate. It is a joke.” 

“He is a communist,” Maria said. “They are very serious gente.” 

“Are you a communist.?” 

“No I am an anti-fascist.” 

“For a long time.?” 

“Since I have understood fascism.” 

“How long is that.?” 

“For nearly ten years.” 

“That is not much time,” the woman said. “I have been a re- 
publican for twenty years.” 

“My father was a repubhcan all his life,” Maria said. “It was for 
that they shot him.” 

“My father was also a repubhcan all his life. Also my grandfather,” 
Robert Jordan said. 

“In what country.?” 

“The United States.” 

“Did they shoot them.?” the woman asked. 

“Que va,” Maria said. “The United States is a country of repub- 
licans. They don’t shoot you for being a republican there.” 

“All the same it is a good thing to have a grandfather who was a 
republican,” the woman said. “It shows a good blood.” 

“My grandfather was on the Republican national committee,” 
Robert Jordan said. That impressed even Maria. 

“And is thy father still active in the Repubhc.?” Pilar asked. 

“No. He is dead.” 

“Can one ask how he died.?” 

“He shot himself.” 

“To avoid being tortured.?” the woman asked. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


67 


“Yes,” Robert Jordan said. “To avoid being tortured.” 

Maria looked at him with tears in her eyes. “My father,” she said, 
“could not obtain a weapon. Oh, I am very glad that your father 
had the good fortune to obtain a weapon.” 

“Yes. It was pretty lucky,” Robert Jordan said. “Should we talk 
about something else.?” 

“Then you and me we are the same,” Maria said. She put her hand 
on his arm and looked in his face. He looked at her brown face and 
at the eyes that, since he had seen them, had never been as young 
as the rest of her face but that now were suddenly hungry and young 
and wanting. 

“You could be brother and sister by the look,” the woman said. 
“But I believe it is fortunate that you are not.” 

“Now I know why I have felt as I have,” Maria said. “Now it is 
clear.” 

“Que va,” Robert Jordan said and reaching over, he ran his hand 
over the top of her head. He had been wanting to do that all day 
and now he did it, he could feel his throat swelling. She moved her 
head under his hand and smiled up at him and he felt the thick but 
silky roughness of the cropped head rippling between his fingers. 
Then his hand was on her neck and then he dropped it. 

“Do it again,” she said. “I wanted you to do that all day.” 

“Later,” Robert Jordan said and his voice was thick. 

“And me,” the woman of Pablo said in her booming voice. “I am 
expected to watch all this? I am expected not to be moved? One 
cannot. For fault of anything better; that Pablo should come back.” 

Maria took no notice of her now, nor of the others playing cards 
at the table by the candlefight. 

“Do you want another cup of wine, Roberto?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said. “Why not?” 

“You’re going to have a drunkard like I have,” the woman of 
Pablo said. “With that rare thing he drank in the cup and all. Listen 
to me, Ingles.” 

“Not Ingles. American.” 

“Listen, then, American. Where do you plan to sleep?” 

“Outside. I have a sleeping robe.” 

“Good,” she said. “The night is clear?” 

“And will be cold.” 


68 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“Outside then,” she said. “Sleep thee outside. And thy materials 
can sleep with me.” 

“Good,” said Robert Jordan. 

“Leave us for a moment,” Robert Jordan said to the girl and put 
his hand on her shoulder. 

“Why.?” 

“I wish to speak to Pilar.” 

“Must I go.?” 

“Yes.” 

“What is it?” the woman of Pablo said when the girl had gone 
over to the mouth of the cave where she stood by the big wineskin, 
watching the card players. 

“The gypsy said I should have—” he began. 

“No,” the woman interrupted. “He is mistaken.” 

“If it is necessary that I—” Robert Jordan said quiedy but with 
difficulty. 

“Thee would have done it, I believe,” the woman said. “Nay, it is 
not necessary. I was watching thee. But thy judgment was good.” 

“But if it is needful ” 

“No,” the woman said. “I tell you it is not needful. The mind of 
the gypsy is corrupt.” 

“But in weakness a man can be a great danger.” 

“No. Thou dost not understand. Out of this one has passed all 
capacity for danger.” 

“I do not understand.” 

“Thou art very young still,” she said. “You will understand.” 
Then, to the girl, “Come, Maria. We are not talking more.” 

The girl came over and Robert Jordan reached his hand out and 
patted her head. She stroked under his hand like a kitten. Then he 
thought that she was going to cry. But her bps drew up again and 
she looked at him and smiled. 

“Thee would do well to go to bed now,” the woman said to 
Robert Jordan. “Thou hast had a long journey.” 

“Good,” said Robert Jordan. “I will get my things.” 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


He was asleep in the robe and he had been asleep, he thought, for 
a long time. The robe was spread on the forest , floor in the lee of 
the rocks beyond the cave mouth and as he slept, he turned, and 
turning rolled on his pistol which was fastened by a lanyard to one 
wrist and had been by his side under the cover when he went to 
sleep, shoulder and back weary, leg-tired, his muscles pulled with 
tiredness so that the ground was soft, and simply stretching in the 
robe against the flannel lining was voluptuous with fatigue. Waking, 
he wondered where he was, knew, and then shifted the pistol from 
under his side and settled happily to stretch back into sleep, his hand 
on the pillow of his clothing that was bundled neatly around his 
rope-soled shoes. He had one arm around the pillow. 

Then he felt her hand on his shoulder and turned quickly, his 
right hand holding the pistol under the robe. 

“Oh, it is thee,” he said and dropping the pistol he reached both 
arms up and pulled her down. With his arms around her he could 
feel her shivering. 

“Get in,” he said softly. “It is cold out there.” 

“No. I must not.” 

“Get in,” he said. “And we can talk about it later.” 

She was trembling and he held her wrist now with one hand and 
held her lightly with the other arm. She had turned her head away. 

“Get in, little rabbit,” he said and kissed her on the back of the 
neck. 

“I am afraid.” 

“No. Do not be afraid. Get in.” 

“How.?” 

“Just slip in. There is much room. Do you want me to help you?” 

“No,” she said and then she was in the robe and he was holding 
her tight to him and trying to kiss her lips and she was pressing her 
face against the pillow of clothing but holding her arms close around 
his neck. Then he felt her arms relax and she was shivering again 
as he held her. 


69 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


70 

“No,” he said and laughed. “Do not be afraid. That is the pistol.” 

He lifted it and slipped it behind him. 

“I am ashamed,” she said, her face away from him . 

“No. You must not be. Here. Now.” 

“No, I must not. I am ashamed and frightened.” 

“No. My rabbit. Please.” 

“I must not. If thou dost not love me.” 

“I love thee.” 

“I love thee. Oh, I love thee. Put thy hand on my head,” she said 
away from him, her face still in the pillow. He put his hand on her 
head and stroked it and then suddenly her face was away from the 
pillow and she was in his arms, pressed close against him, and her 
face was against his and she was crying. 

He held her still and close, feeling the long length of the young 
body, and he stroked her head and kissed the wet saltiness of her 
eyes, and as she cried he could feel the rounded, firm-pointed 
breasts touching through the shirt she wore. 

“I cannot kiss,” she said. “I do not know how.” 

“There is no need to kiss.” 

“Yes. I must kiss. I must do everything.” 

“There is no need to do anything. We are all right. But thou hast 
many clothes.” 

“What should I do.i*” 

“I will help you.” 

“Is that better.?” 

“Yes. Much. Is it not better to thee?” 

“Yes. Much better. And I can go with thee as Pilar said?” 

“Yes.” 

“But not to a home. With thee.” 

“No, to a home.” 

“No. No. No. With thee and I will be thy woman.” 

Now as they lay all that before had been shielded was unshielded. 
Where there had been roughness of fabric all was smooth with a 
smoothness and firm rounded pressing and a long warm coolness, 
cool outside and warm within, long and light and closely holding, 
closely held, lonely, hollow-making with contours, happy-making, 
young and loving and now all warmly smooth with a hollowing, 
chest-aching, tight-held loneliness that was such that Robert Jordan 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


71 

felt he could not stand it and he said, “Hast thou loved others?” 

“Never.” 

Then suddenly, going dead in his arms, “But things were done 
to me.” 

“By whom?” 

“By various.” 

Now she lay perfectly quietly and as though her body were dead 
and turned her head away from him. 

“Now you will not love me.” 

“I love you,” he said. 

But something had happened to him and she knew it. 

“No,” she said and her voice had gone dead and flat. “Thou wilt 
not love me. But perhaps thou wilt take me to the home. And I 
will go to the home and I will never be thy woman nor anything.” 

“I love thee, Maria.” 

“No. It is not true,” she said. Then as a last thing pitifully and 
hopefully. 

“But I have never kissed any man.” 

“Then kiss me now.” 

“I wanted to,” she said. “But I know not how. Where things 
were done to me I fought until I could not see. I fought until— 
until— until one sat upon my head— and I bit him— and then they 
tied my mouth and held my arms behind my head— and others did 
things to me.” 

“I love thee, Maria,” he said. “And no one has done anything to 
thee. Thee, they cannot touch. No one has touched thee, Uttle rabbit.” 

“You believe that?” 

“I know it.” 

“And you can love me?” warm again against him now. 

“I can love thee more.” 

“I will try to kiss thee very well.” 

“Kiss me a little.” 

“I do not know how.” 

“Just kiss me.” 

She kissed him on the cheek. 

“No.” 

“Where do the noses go? I always wondered where the noses 
would go.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


72 

“Look, turn thy head,” and then their mouths were tight together 
and she lay close pressed against him and her mouth opened a Htde 
gradually and then, suddenly, holding her against him, he was 
happier that he had ever been, hghtly, lovingly, exultingly, innerly 
happy and unthinking and untired and unworried and only feeling 
a great delight and he said, “My Httle rabbit. My darling. My sweet. 
My long lovely.” 

“What do you say.i*” she said as though from a great distance 
away. 

“My lovely one,” he said. 

They lay there and he felt her heart beating against his and with 
the side of his foot he stroked very lighdy against the side of hers. 

“Thee came barefooted,” he said. 

“Yes.” 

“Then thee knew thou wert coming to the bed.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you had no fear.” 

“Yes. Much. But more fear of how it would be to take my shoes 
off.” 

“And what time is it now? lo sabes?” 

“No. Thou hast no watch?” 

“Yes. But it is behind thy back.” 

“Take it from there.” 

“No.” 

“Then look over my shoulder.” 

It was one o’clock. The dial showed bright in the darkness that 
the robe made. 

“Thy chin scratches my shoulder.” 

“Pardon it. I have no tools to shave.” 

“I like it. Is thy beard blond?” 

“Yes.” 

“And will it be long?” 

“Not before the bridge. Maria, listen. Dost thou ?” 

“Do I what?” 

“Dost thou wish?” 

“Yes. Everything. Please. And if we do everything together, the 
other maybe never will have been.” 

“Did you think of that?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


73 


“No. I think it in myself but Pilar told me.” 

“She is very wise.” 

“And another thing,” Maria said softly. “She said for me to tell 
you that I am not sick. She knows about such things and she said 
to tell you that.” 

“She told you to tell me.?” 

“Yes. I spoke to her and told her that I love you. I loved you 
when I saw you today and I loved you always but I never saw you 
before and I told Pilar and she said if I ever told you anything about 
anything, to tell you that I was not sick. The other thing she told 
me long ago. Soon after the train.” 

“What did she say.?” 

“She said that nothing is done to oneself that one does not 
accept and that if I loved some one it would take it all away. I 
wished to die, you see.” 

“What she said is true.” 

“And now I am happy that I did not die. I am so happy that I 
did not die. And you can love me.?” 

“Yes. I love you now.” 

“And I can be thy woman?” 

“I cannot have a woman doing what I do. But thou art my 
woman now.” 

“If once I am, then I will keep on. Am I thy woman now.?” 

“Yes, Maria. Yes, my little rabbit.” 

She held herself tight to him and her lips looked for his and then 
found them and were against them and he felt her, fresh, new and 
smooth and young and lovely with the warm, scalding coolness and 
unbelievable to be there in the robe that was as familiar as his 
clothes, or his shoes, or his duty and then she said, frightenedly, 
“And now let us do quickly what it is we do so that the other is 
all gone.” 

“You want?” 

“Yes,” she said almost fiercely. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


It was cold in the night and Robert Jordan slept heavily. Once he 
woke and, stretching, realized that the girl was there, curled far 
down in the robe, breathing lighdy and regularly, and in the dark, 
bringing his head in from the cold, the sky hard and sharp with 
stars, the air cold in his nostrils, he put his head under the warmth 
of the robe and kissed her smooth shoulder. She did not wake and 
he rolled onto his side away from her and with his head out of the 
robe in the cold again, lay awake a moment feeling the long, seeping 
luxury of his fatigue and then the smooth tactile happiness of their 
two bodies touching and then, as he pushed his legs out deep as they 
would go in the robe, he slipped down steeply into sleep. 

He woke at first daylight and the girl was gone. He knew it as 
he woke and, putting out his arm, he felt the robe warm where she 
had been. He looked at the mouth of the cave where the blanket 
showed frost-rimmed and saw the thin gray smoke from the crack 
in the rocks that meant the kitchen fire was lighted. 

A man came out of the timber, a blanket worn over his head like 
a poncho. Robert Jordan saw it was Pablo and that he was smoking 
a cigarette. He’s been down corralling the horses, he thought. 

Pablo pulled open the blanket and went into the cave without 
looking toward Robert Jordan. 

Robert Jordan felt with his hand the light frost that lay on the 
worn, spotted green balloon silk outer covering of the five-year-old 
down robe, then settled into it again. Bueno, he said to himself, 
feeling the familiar caress of the flannel lining as he spread his legs 
wide, then drew them together and then turned on his side so that 
his head would be away from the direction where he knew the sun 
would come. Que mas da, I might as well sleep some more. 

He slept until the sound of airplane motors woke him. 

Lying on his back, he saw them, a fascist patrol of three Fiats, tiny, 
bright, fast-moving across the mountain sky, headed in the direction 
from which Anselmo and he had come yesterday. The three passed 
and then came nine more, flying much higher in the minute, pointed 
formations of threes, threes and threes. 


74 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


75 

Pablo and the gypsy were standing at the cave mouth, in the 
shadow, watching the sky and as Robert Jordan lay still, the sky now 
full of the high hammering roar of motors, there was a new droning 
roar and three more planes came over at less than a thousand feet 
above the clearing. These three were Heinkel one-elevens, twin- 
motor bombers. 

Robert Jordan, his head in the shadow of the rocks, knew they 
would not see him, and that it did not matter if they did. He knew 
they could possibly see the horses in the corral if they were looking 
for anything in these mountains. If they were not looking for any- 
thing they might still see them but would naturally take them for 
some of their own cavalry mounts. Then came a new and louder 
droning roar and three more Heinkel one-elevens showed coming 
steeply, stiffly, lower yet, crossing in rigid formation, their pounding 
roar approaching in crescendo to an absolute of noise and then re- 
ceding as they passed the clearing. 

Robert Jordan unrolled the bundle of clothing that made his 
pillow and pulled on his shirt. It was over his head and he was pull- 
ing it down when he heard the next planes coming and he pulled his 
trousers on under the robe and lay still as three more of the Heinkel 
bimotor bombers came over. Before they were gone over the shoul- 
der of the mountain, he had buckled on his pistol, rolled the robe 
and placed it against the rocks and sat now, close against the rocks, 
tying his rope-soled shoes when the approaching droning turned to 
a greater clattering roar than ever before and nine more Heinkel 
light bombers came in echelons; hammering the sky apart as they 
went over. 

Robert Jordan slipped along the rocks to the mouth of the cave 
where one of the brothers, Pablo, the gypsy, Anselmo, Agustin and 
the woman stood in the mouth looking out. 

“Have there been planes like this before.?” he asked. 

“Never,” said Pablo. “Get in. They will see thee.” 

The sun had not yet hit the mouth of the cave. It was just now 
shining on the meadow by the stream and Robert Jordan knew they 
could not be seen in the dark, early morning shadow of the trees and 
the solid shade the rocks made, but he went in the cave in order 
not to make them nervous. 

“They are many,” the woman said. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


76 

“And there will be more,” Robert Jordan said. 

“How do you know?” Pablo asked suspiciously. 

“Those, just now, will have pursuit planes with them.” 

Just then they heard them, the higher, whining drone, and as 
they passed at about five thousand feet, Robert Jordan counted fifteen 
Fiats in echelon of echelons Uke a wild-goose flight of the V-shaped 
threes. 

In the cave entrance their faces all looked very sober and Robert 
Jordan said, “You have not seen this many planes?” 

“Never,” said Pablo. 

“There are not many at Segovia?” 

“Never has there been, we have seen three usually. Sometimes six 
of the chasers. Perhaps three Junkers, the big ones with the three 
motors, with the chasers with them. Never have we seen planes Uke 
this.” 

It is bad, Robert Jordan thought. This is really bad. Here is a 
concentration of planes which means something very bad. I must 
hsten for them to unload. But no, they cannot have brought up the 
troops yet for the attack. Certainly not before tonight or tomorrow 
night, certainly not yet. Certainly they will not be moving anything 
at this hour. 

He could still hear the receding drone. He looked at his watch. 
By now they should be over the lines, the first ones anyway. He 
pushed the knob that set the second hand to clicking and watched it 
move around. No, perhaps not yet. By now. Yes. Well over by now. 
Two hundred and fifty miles an hour for those one-elevens anyway. 
Five minutes would carry them there. By now they’re well beyond 
the pass with Castile all yellow and tawny beneath them now in 
the morning, the yellow crossed by white roads and spotted with the 
small villages and the shadows of the Heinkels moving over the 
land as the shadows of sharks pass over a sandy floor of the ocean. 

There was no bump, bump, bumping thud of bombs. His watch 
ticked on. 

They’re going on to Colmenar, to Escorial, or to the flying field 
at Manzanares el Real, he thought, with the old castle above the 
lake with the ducks in the reeds and the fake airfield just behind 
the real field with the dummy planes, not quite hidden, their props 
turning in the wind. That’s where they must be headed. They can’t 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 77 

know about the attack, he told himself and something in him said, 
why can’t they? They’ve known about all the others. 

“Do you think they saw the horses?” Pablo asked. 

“Those weren’t looking for horses,” Robert Jordan said. 

“But did they see them?” 

“Not unless they were asked to look for them.” 

“Could they see them?” 

“Probably not,” Robert Jordan said. “Unless the sun were on the 
trees.” 

“It is on them very early,” Pablo said miserably. 

“I think they have other things to think of besides thy horses,” 
Robert Jordan said. 

It was eight minutes since he had pushed the lever on the stop 
watch and there was still no sound of bombing. 

“What do you do with the watch?” the woman asked. 

“I hsten where they have gone.” 

“Oh,” she said. At ten minutes he stopped looking at the watch 
knowing it would be too far away to hear, now, even allowing a 
minute for the sound to travel, and said to Anselmo, “I would speak 
to thee.” 

Anselmo came out of the cave mouth and they walked a Httle 
way from the entrance and stood beside a pine tree. 

“Que tal?” Robert Jordan asked him. “How goes it?” 

“All right.” 

“Hast thou eaten?” 

“No. No one has eaten.” 

“Eat then and take something to eat at mid-day. I want you to 
go to watch the road. Make a note of everything that passes both up 
and down the road.” 

“I do not write.” 

“There is no need to,” Robert Jordan took out two leaves from his 
notebook and with his knife cut an inch from the end of his pencil. 
“Take this and make a mark for tanks thus,” he drew a slanted tank, 
“and then a mark for each one and when there are four, cross the 
four strokes for the fifth.” 

“In this way we count also.” 

“Good. Make another mark, two wheels and a box, for trucks. 
If they are empty make a circle. If they are full of troops make a 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


78 

Straight mark. Mark for guns. Big ones, thus. Small ones, thus. Mark 
for cars. Mark for ambulances. Thus, two wheels and a box with a 
cross on it. Mark for troops on foot by companies, like this, see.? A 
httle square and then mark beside it. Mark for cavalry, like this, you 
see.? Like a horse. A box with four legs. That is a troop of twenty 
horse. You understand.? Each troop a mark.” 

“Yes. It is ingenious.” 

“Now,” he drew two large wheels with circles around them and 
a short line for a gun barrel. “These are anti-tanks. They have rubber 
tires. Mark for them. These are anti-aircraft,” two wheels with the 
gun barrel slanted up. “Mark for them also. Do you understand.? 
Have you seen such guns.?” 

“Yes,” Anselmo said. “Of course. It is clear.” 

“Take the gypsy with you that he will know from what point you 
will be watching so you may be relieved. Pick a place that is safe, 
not too close and from where you can see well and comfortably. 
Stay until you are relieved.” 

“I understand.” 

“Good. And that when you come back, I should know everything 
that moved upon the road. One paper is for movement up. One is 
for movement down the road.” 

They walked over toward the cave. 

“Send Rafael to me,” Robert Jordan said and waited by the tree. 
He watched Anselmo go into the cave, the blanket falling behind 
him. The gypsy sauntered out, wiping his mouth with his hand. 

“Que tal?” the gypsy said. “Did you divert yourself last night?” 

“I slept.” 

“Less bad,” the gypsy said and grinned. “Have you a ciga- 
rette.?” 

“Listen,” Robert Jordan said and felt in his pocket for the ciga- 
rettes. “I wish you to go with Anselmo to a place from which he 
will observe the road. There you will leave him, noting the place in 
order that you may guide me to it or guide whoever will relieve 
him later. You will then go to where you can observ'e the saw mill 
and note if there are any changes in the post there.” 

“What changes.?” 

“How many men are there now?” 

“Eight. The last I knew.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 79 

“See how many are there now. See at what intervals the guard 
is relieved at that bridge.” 

“Intervals.?” 

“How many hours the guard stays on and at what time a change 
is made.” 

“I have no watch.” 

“Take mine.” He unstrapped it. 

“What a watch,” Rafael said admiringly. “Look at what complica- 
tions. Such a watch should be able to read and write. Look at what 
complications of numbers. It’s a watch to end watches.” 

“Don’t fool with it,” Robert Jordan said. “Can you tell time?” 

“Why not? Twelve o’clock mid-day. Hunger. Twelve o’clock 
midnight. Sleep. Six o’clock in the morning, hunger. Six o’clock at 
night, drunk. With luck. Ten o’clock at night ” 

“Shut up,” Robert Jordan said. “You don’t need to be a clown. I 
want you to check on the guard at the big bridge and the post on 
the road below in the same manner as the post and the guard at the 
saw mill and the small bridge.” 

“It is much work,” the gypsy smiled. “You are sure there is no one 
you would rather send than me?” 

“No, Rafael. It is very important. That you should do it very 
carefully and keeping out of sight with care.” 

“I believe I will keep out of sight,” the gypsy said. “Why do you 
tell me to keep out of sight? You think I want to be shot?” 

“Take things a little seriously,” Robert Jordan said. “This is 
serious.” 

“Thou askest me to take things seriously? After what thou didst 
last night? When thou needest to kill a man and instead did what 
you did? You were supposed to kill one, not make one! When we 
have just seen the sky full of airplanes of a quantity to kill us back 
to our grandfathers and forward to all unborn grandsons including 
all cats, goats and bedbugs. Airplanes making a noise to curdle the 
milk in your mother’s breasts as they pass over darkening the sky 
and roaring like lions and you ask me to take things seriously. I 
take them too seriously already.” 

“All right,” said Robert Jordan and laughed and put his hand on 
the gypsy’s shoulder. “Don’t take them too seriously then. Now 
finish your breakfast and go.” 


8o 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“And thou?” the gyp>sy asked “What do you do?” 

“I go to see El Sordo.” 

“After those airplanes it is very possible that thou tvilt find nobody 
in the whole mountains,” the gypsy said. “There must have been 
many people sweating the big drop this morning when those 
passed.” 

“Those have other work than hunting guerillas.” 

“Yes,” the gypsy said. Then shook his head. “But when they care 
to undertake that work.” 

’“Que va,’’ Robert Jordan said. “Those are the best of the German 
light bombers. They do not send those after gypsies.” 

“They give me a horror,” Rafael said “Of such things, yes, I am 
frightened.” 

“They go to bomb an airfield,” Robert Jordan told him as they 
went into the cave. “I am almost sure they go for that.” 

“What do you say?” the woman of Pablo asked. She poured him 
a bowl of coffee and handed him a can of condensed milk. 

“There is milk? What luxury!” 

“There is everything,” she said. “And since the planes there is 
much fear. Where did you say they went?” 

Robert Jordan dripped some of the thick milk into his coffee from 
the slit cut in the can, wiped the can on the rim of the cup, and 
stirred the coffee until it was a light brown. 

“They go to bomb an airfield I believe. They might go to 
Escorial and Colmenar. Perhaps all three.” 

“That they should go a long way and keep away from here,” 
Pablo said. 

“And why are they here now?” the woman asked. “What brings 
them now? Never have we seen such planes. Nor in such quantity. 
Do they prepare an attack?” 

“What movement was there on the road last night?” Robert 
Jordan asked. The girl Maria was close to him but he did not look 
at her. 

“You,” the woman said. “Fernando. You were in La Granja last 
night. What movement was there?” 

“Nothing,” a short, open-faced man of about thirty-five with a cast 
in one eye, whom Robert Jordan had not seen before, answered. “A 
few camions as usual. Some cars. No movement of troops while f 
was there.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 8l 

“You go into La Granja every night?” Robert Jordan asked him. 

“I or another,” Fernando said. “Some one goes.” 

“They go for the news. For tobacco. For small things,” the woman 
said. 

“We have people there?” 

“Yes. Why not? Those who work the power plant. Some others.” 

“What was the news?” 

“Pues nada. There was nothing. It still goes badly in the north. 
That is not news. In the north it has gone badly now since the be- 
ginning.” 

“Did you hear anything from Segovia?” 

“No, hombre. I did not ask.” 

“Do you go into Segovia?” 

“Sometimes,” Fernando said. “But there is danger. There are 
controls where they ask for your papers.” 

“Do you know the airfield?” 

“No, hombre. I know where it is but I was never close to it. 
There, there is much asking for papers.” 

“No one spoke about these planes last night?” 

“In La Granja? Nobody. But they will talk about them tonight 
certainly. They talked about the broadcast of Quiepo de Llano. 
Nothing more. Oh, yes. It seems that the Republic is preparing an 
offensive.” 

“That what?” 

“That the Republic is preparing an offensive.” 

“Where?” 

“It is not certain. Perhaps here. Perhaps for another part of the 
Sierra. Hast thou heard of it?” 

“They say this in La Granja?” 

“Yes, hombre. I had forgotten it. But there is always much talk 
of offensives.” 

“Where does this talk come from?” 

“Where? Why from different people. The officers speak in the 
cafes in Segovia and Avila and the waiters note it. The rumors come 
running. Since some time they speak of an offensive by the Republic 
in these parts.” 

“By the Republic or by the Fascists?” 

“By the Republic. If it were by the Fascists all would know of it 
No, this is an offensive of quite some size. Some say there are two. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


82 

One here and the other over the Alto del Leon near the Escorial. 
Have you heard aught of this?” 

“What else did you hear?” 

“Nada, hombre. Nothing. Oh, yes. There was some talk that the 
Republicans would try to blow up the bridges, if there was to be an 
offensive. But the bridges are guarded.” 

“Art thou joking?” Robert Jordan said, sipping his coffee. 

“No, hombre” said Fernando. 

“This one doesn’t joke,” the woman said. “Bad luck that he 
doesn’t.” 

“Then,” said Robert Jordan. “Thank you for all the news. Did 
you hear nothing more?” 

“No. They talk, as always, of troops to be sent to clear out these 
mountains. There is some talk that they are on the way. That they 
have been sent already from Valladolid. But they always talk in that 
way. It is not to give any importance to.” 

“And thou,” the woman of Pablo said to Pablo almost viciously. 
“With thy talk of safety.” 

Pablo looked at her reflectively and scratched his chin. “Thou,” 
he said. “And thy bridges.” 

“What bridges?” asked Fernando cheerfully. 

“Stupid,” the woman said to him. “Thick head. Tonto. Take 
another cup of coffee and try to remember more news.” 

“Don’t be angry. Pilar,” Fernando said calmly and cheerfully. 
“Neither should one become alarmed at rumors. I have told thee 
and this comrade all that I remember.” 

“You don’t remember anything more?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“No,” Fernando said with dignity. “And I am fortunate to re- 
member this because, since it was but rumors, I paid no attention 
to any of it.” 

“Then there may have been more?” 

“Yes. It is possible. But I paid no attention. For a year I have 
heard nothing but rumors.” 

Robert Jordan heard a quick, control-breaking sniff of laughter 
from the girl, Maria, who was standing behind him. 

“Tell us one more rumor, Fernandito,” she said and then her 
shoulders shook again. 

“If I could remember, I would not,” Fernando said. “It is be- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


83 

neath a man’s dignity to listen and give importance to rumors.” 

“And with this we will save the Republic,” the woman said. 

“No. You will save it by blowing bridges,” Pablo told her. 

“Go,” said Robert Jordan to Anselmo and Rafael. “If you have 
eaten.” 

“We go now,” the old man said and the two of them stood up. 
Robert Jordan felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Maria. “Thou 
shouldst eat,” she said and let her hand rest there. “Eat well so that 
thy stomach can support more rumors.” 

“The rumors have taken the place of the appetite.” 

“No. It should not be so. Eat this now before more rumors come.” 
She put the bowl before him. 

“Do not make a joke of me,” Fernando said to her. “I am thy 
good friend, Maria.” 

“I do not joke at thee, Fernando. I only joke with him and he 
should eat or he will be hungry.” 

“We should all eat,” Fernando said. “Pilar, what passes that we 
are not served.?” 

“Nothing, man,” the woman of Pablo said and filled his bowl with 
the meat stew. “Eat. Yes, that’s what you can do. Eat now.” 

“It is very good. Pilar,” Fernando said, all dignity intact. 

“Thank you,” said the woman. “Thank you and thank you again.” 

“Are you angry at me.?” Fernando asked. 

“No. Eat. Go ahead and eat.” 

“I will,” said Fernando. “Thank you.” 

Robert Jordan looked at Maria and her shoulders started shaking 
again and she looked away. Fernando ate steadily, a proud and 
dignified expression on his face, the dignity of which could not be 
affected even by the huge spoon that he was using or the slight 
dripping of juice from the stew which ran from the corners of his 
mouth. 

“Do you like the food.?” the woman of Pablo asked him. 

“Yes, Pilar,” he said with his mouth full. “It is the same as usual.” 

Robert Jordan felt Maria’s hand on his arm and felt her fingers 
tighten with delight. 

“It is for that that you like it?” the woman asked Fernando. 

“Yes,” she said. “I see. The stew; as usual. Como siempre. Things 
are bad in the north; as usual. An offensive here; as usual. That 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


troops come to hunt us out; as usual. You could serve as a monu- 
ment to as usual.” 

“But the last two are only rumors, Pilar.” 

“Spain,” the woman of Pablo said bitterly. Then turned to Robert 
Jordan. “Do they have people such as this in other countries.?” 

“There are no other countries hke Spain,” Robert Jordan said 
politely. 

“You are right,” Fernando said. “There is no other country in 
the world like Spain.” 

“Hast thou ever seen any other country.?” the woman asked him. 

“Nay,” said Fernando. “Nor do I wish to.” 

“You see.?” the woman of Pablo said to Robert Jordan. 

“Fernandito,” Maria said to him. “Tell us of the time thee went to 
Valencia.” 

“I did not like Valencia.” 

“Why.?” Maria asked and pressed Robert Jordan’s arm again. 
“Why did thee not like it.?” 

“The people had no manners and I could not understand them. 
All they did was shout chi at one another.” 

“Could they understand thee.?” Maria asked. 

“They pretended not to,” Fernando said. 

“And what did thee there.?” 

“I left without even seeing the sea,” Fernando said. “I did not 
hke the people.” 

“Oh, get out of here, you old maid,” the woman of Pablo said. 
“Get out of here before you make me sick. In Valencia I had the best 
time of my life. Vamosl Valencia. Don’t talk to me of Valencia.” 

“What did thee there.?” Maria asked. The woman of Pablo sat 
down at the table with a bowl of coffee, a piece of bread and a bowl 
of the stew. 

“Qui? what did we there. I was there when Finito had a 
contract for three fights at the Feria. Never have I seen so many 
people. Never have I seen cafes so crowded. For hours it would be 
impossible to get a seat and it was impossible to board the tram 
cars. In Valencia there was movement all day and all night.” 

“But what did you do.?” Maria asked. 

“All things,” the woman said. “We went to the beach and lay in 
the water and boats with sails were hauled up out of the sea by oxen. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


85 

The oxen driven to the water until they must swim; then harnessed 
to the boats, and, when they found their feet, staggering up the sand. 
Ten yokes of oxen dragging a boat with sails out of the sea in the 
morning with the line of the small waves breaking on the beach. 
That is Valencia.” 

“But what did thee besides watch oxen?” 

“We ate in pavilions on the sand. Pastries made of cooked and 
shredded fish and red and green peppers and small nuts like grains 
of rice. Pastries delicate and flaky and the fish of a richness that was 
incredible. Prawns fresh from the sea sprinkled with lime juice. They 
were pink and sweet and there were four bites to a prawn. Of those 
we ate many. Then we ate paella with fresh sea food, clams in their 
shells, mussels, crayfish, and small eels. Then we ate even smaller 
eels alone cooked in oil and as tiny as bean sprouts and curled in all 
directions and so tender they disappeared in the mouth without 
chewing. All the time drinking a white wine, cold, light and good 
at thirty centimos the botde. And for an end; melon. That is the 
home of the melon.” 

“The melon of Castile is better,” Fernando said. 

“Que va" said the woman of Pablo. “The melon of Castile is for 
self abuse. The melon of Valencia for eating. When I think of those 
melons long as one’s arm, green like the sea and crisp and juicy to 
cut and sweeter than the early morning in summer. Aye, when I 
think of those smallest eels, tiny, delicate and in mounds on the 
plate. Also the beer in pitchers all through the afternoon, the beer 
sweating in its coldness in pitchers the size of water jugs.” 

“And what did thee when not eating nor drinking?” 

“We made love in the room with the strip wood blinds hanging 
over the balcony and a breeze through the opening of the top of the 
door which turned on hinges. We made love there, the room dark 
in the day time from the hanging blinds, and from the streets there 
was the scent of the flower market and the smell of burned powder 
from the firecrackers of the traca that ran through the streets ex- 
ploding each noon during the Feria. It was a line of fireworks that 
ran through all the city, the firecrackers linked together and the ex- 
plosions running along on poles and wires of the tramways, explod- 
ing with great noise and a jumping from pole to pole with a sharp- 
ness and a cracking of explosion you could not believe. 


86 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“We made love and then sent for another pitcher of beer with the 
drops of its coldness on the glass and when the girl brought it, I 
took it from the door and I placed the coldness of the pitcher against 
the back of Finito as he lay, now, asleep, not having wakened when 
the beer was brought and he said, ‘No, Pilar. No, woman, let me 
sleep.’ And I said, ‘No, wake up and drink this to see how cold,’ and 
he drank without opening his eyes and went to sleep again and I 
lay with my back against a pillow at the foot of the bed and watched 
him sleep, brown and dark-haired and young and quiet in his sleep, 
and drank the whole pitcher, listening now to the music of a band 
that was passing. You,” she said to Pablo. “Do you know aught of 
such things.?” 

“We have done things together,” Pablo said. 

“Yes,” the woman said. “Why not? And thou wert more man 
than Finito in your time. But never did we go to Valencia. Never 
did we lie in bed together and hear a band pass in Valencia.” 

“It was impossible,” Pablo told her. “We have had no opportunity 
to go to Valencia. Thou knowest that if thou wilt be reasonable. 
But, with Finito, neither did thee blow up any train.” 

“No,” said the woman. “That is what is left to us. The train. Yes. 
Always the train. No one can speak against that. That remains of 
all the laziness, sloth and failure. That remains of the cowardice of 
this moment. There were many other things before too. I do not 
want to be unjust. But no one can speak against Valencia either. 
You hear me?” 

“I did not like it,” Fernando said quietly. “I did not like Valencia.” 

“Yet they speak of the mule as stubborn,” the woman said. “Clean 
up, Maria, that we may go.” 

As she said this they heard the first sound of the planes returning. 


CHAPTER NINE 


They stood in the mouth of the cave and watched them. The 
bombers were high now in fast, ugly arrow-heads beating the sky 
apart with the noise of their motors. They are shaped like sharks, 
Robert Jordan thought, the wide-finned, sharp-nosed sharks of the 
Gulf Stream. But these, wide-finned in silver, roaring, the light mist 
of their propellers in the sun, these do not move like sharks. They 
move hke no thing there has ever been. They move like mechanized 
doom. 

You ought to write, he told himself. Maybe you will again some 
time. He felt Maria holding to his arm. She was looking up and he 
said to her, “What do they look like to you, guapa?” 

“I don’t know,” she said. “Death, I think.” 

“They look like planes to me,” the woman of Pablo said. “Where 
are the little ones.?” 

“They may be crossing at another part,” Robert Jordan said. 
“Those bombers are too fast to have to wait for them and have 
come back alone. We never follow them across the lines to fight. 
There aren’t enough planes to risk it.” 

Just then three Heinkel fighters in V formation came low over the 
clearing coming toward them, just over the tree tops, like clattering, 
wing-tilting, pinch-nosed ugly toys, to enlarge suddenly, fearfully to 
their actual size; pouring past in a whining roar. They were so low 
that from the cave mouth all of them could see the pilots, helmeted, 
goggled, a scarf blowing back from behind the patrol leader’s head. 

"Those can see the horses,” Pablo said. 

“Those can see thy cigarette butts,” the woman said. “Let fall the 
blanket.” 

No more planes came over. The others must have crossed farther 
up the range and when the droning was gone they went out of the 
cave into the open. 

The sky was empty now and high and blue and clear. 

“It seems as though they were a dream that you wake from,” 

87 


88 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


Maria said to Robert Jordan. There was not even the last almost un- 
heard hum that comes Uke a finger faintly touching and leav- 
ing and touching again after the sound is gone alm ost past 
hearing. 

“They are no dream and you go in and clean up,” Pilar said to her. 
“What about it.?” she turned to Robert Jordan, “Should we ride or 
walk.?” 

Pablo looked at her and grunted. 

“As you will,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Then let us walk,” she said. “I would like it for the liver.” 

“Riding is good for the liver.” 

“Yes, but hard on the buttocks. We will walk and thou — ” She 
turned to Pablo. “Go down and count thy beasts and see they have 
not flown away with any.” 

“Do you want a horse to ride.?” Pablo asked Robert Jordan. 

“No. Many thanks. What about the girl.?” 

“Better for her to walk,” Pilar said. “She’ll get stiff in too many 
places and serve for nothing.” 

Robert Jordan felt his face reddening. 

“Did you sleep well.?” Pilar asked. Then said, “It is true that there 
is no sickness. There could have been. I know not why there wasn’t. 
There probably still is God after all, although we have abolished 
Him. Go on,” she said to Pablo. “This does not concern thee. This 
is of people younger than thee. Made of other material. Get on.” 
Then to Robert Jordan, “Agustin is looking after thy things. We 
go when he comes.” 

It was a clear, bright day and warm now in the sun. Robert Jor- 
dan looked at the big, brown-faced woman with her kind, widely 
set eyes and her square, heavy face, lined and pleasandy ugly, the 
eyes merry, but the face sad until the lips moved. He looked at her 
and then at the man, heavy and stolid, moving off through the trees 
toward the corral. The woman, too, was looking after him. 

“Did you make love.?” the woman said, 

“What did she say.?” 

“She would not tell me.” 

“I neither.” 

“Then you made love,” the woman said. “Be as careful with her 
as you can.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


89 


“What if she has a bahy?” 

“That will do no harm,” the woman said. “That will do less 
harm.” 

“This is no place for that.” 

“She will not stay here. She will go with you.” 

“And where will I go I can’t take a woman where I go.” 

“Who knows.? You may take two where you go.” 

“That is no way to talk.” 

“Listen,” the woman said. “I am no coward, but I see things very ^ 
clearly in the early moriiing and I think there are many that we know 
that are alive now who will never see another Sunday.” 

“In what day are we?” 

“Sunday.” 

'‘Que va” said Robert Jordan. “Another Sunday is very far. If we 
see Wednesday we are all right. But I do not like to hear thee talk 
like this.” 

“Every one needs to talk to some one,” the woman said. “Before 
we had religion and other nonsense. Now for every one there should 
be some one to whom one can speak frankly, for all the valor that 
one could have one becomes very alone .” 

“We are not alone. We are all together.” 

“The sight of those machines does things to one,” the woman said. 
“We are nothing against such machines.” 

“Yet we can beat them.” 

“Look,” the woman said. “I confess a sadness to you, but do not 
think I lack resolution. Nothing has happened to my resolution.” 

“The sadness will dissipate as the sun rises. It is like a mist.” 

“Clearly,” the woman said. “If you want it that way. Perhaps it 
came from talking that foolishness about Valencia. And that failure 
of a man who has gone to look at his horses. I wounded him much 
with the story. Kill him, yes. Curse him, yes. But wound him, no.” 

“How came you to be with him?” 

“How is one with any one? In the first days of the movement and 
before too, he was something. Something serious. But now he is 
finished. The plug has been drawn and the wine has all run out of 
the skin.” 

“I do not like him.” 

“Nor does he Hke you, and with reason. Last night I slept with 


9° for whom the bell tolls 

him.” She smiled now and shook her head. “Vamos a ver” she said. 
“I said to him, ‘Pablo, why did you not kill the foreigner.?’ 

“ ‘He’s a good boy. Pilar,’ he said. ‘He’s a good boy.’ 

“So I said, ‘You understand now that I command.?’ 

“ ‘Yes, Pilar. Yes,’ he said. Later in the night I hear him awake 
and he is crying. He is crying in a short and ugly manner as a man 
cries when it is as though there is an animal inside that is shaking 
him. 

“‘What passes with thee, Pablo?’ I said to him and I took hold 
of him and held him. 

“ ‘Nothing, Pilar. Nothing.’ 

“ ‘Yes. Something passes with thee.’ 

“ ‘The people,’ he said. ‘The way they left me. The gente! 

“ ‘Yes, but they are with me,’ I said, ‘and I am thy woman.’ 

“‘Pilar,’ he said, ‘remember the train.’ Then he said, ‘May God 
aid thee. Pilar.’ 

“ ‘What are you talking of God for.?’ I said to hi m. ‘What way is 
that to speak.?’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘God and the Virgen! 

“ ‘Que va, God and the Virgen,’ I said to him. ‘Is that any way 
to talk.?’ 

“ ‘I am afraid to die. Pilar,’ he said. ‘Tengo tniedo de morir. Dost 
thou understand.?’ 

“ ‘Then get out of bed,’ I said to him. ‘There is not room in one 
bed for me and thee and thy fear all together.’ 

“Then he was ashamed and was quiet and I went to sleep but, 
man, he’s a ruin.” 

Robert Jordan said nothing. 

“All my life I have had this sadness at intervals,” the woman said. 
“But it is not like the sadness of Pablo. It does not afiect my reso- 
lution.” 

“I believe that.” 

“It may be it is like the times of a woman,” she said. “It may be 
it is nothing,” she paused, then went on. “I put great illusion in the 
Republic. I believe firmly in the Republic and I have faith. I believe 
in it with fervor as those who have religious faith beheve in the 
mysteries.” 

“I believe you.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


91 


“And you have this same faith?” 
“In the Republic?” 

“Yes.” 


“Yes,” he said, hoping it was true. / 

“I am happy,” the woman said. “And you haye no fear?” 
“Not to die,” he said truly. 

“But other fears?” 



'Only of not doing my duty as I should.' 


“Not of capture, as the other had?” \ 

“No,” he said truly. “Fearing that, ond wonld be so preoccupied 
as to be useless.” \ I 

“You are a very cold boy,” 

“No,” he said. “I do not think so.” 

“No. In the head you are very cold.” 

“It is that I am very preoccupied with my work.” 

“But you do not like the things of life?” 

“Yes, Very much. But not to interfere with my work.” 

“You like to drink, I know. I have seen.” 

“Yes. Very much. But not to interfere with my work.” 

“And women?” 

“I like them very much, but I have not given them much impor- 
tance.” 

“You do not care for them?” 

“Yes. But I have not found one that moved me as they say they 
should move you.” 

“I think you lie.” 

“Maybe a little.” 

“But you care for Maria.” 

“Yes. Suddenly and very much.” 

“I, too. I care for her very much. Yes. Much.” 

“I, too,” said Robert Jordan, and could feel his voice thickening. 
“I, too. Yes.” It gave him pleasure to say it and he said it quite for- 
mally in Spanish. “I care for her very much.” 

“I will leave you alone with her after we have seen El Sordo.” 
Robert Jordan said nothing. Then he said, “That is not necessary.” 
“Yes, man. It is necessary. There is not much time.” 

“Did you see that in the hand?” he asked. 

“No. Do not remember that nonsense of the hand,” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


92 

She had put that away with all the other things that might do ill 
to the Republic. 

Robert Jordan said nothing. He was looking at Maria putting away 
the dishes inside the cave. She wiped her hands and turned and 
smiled at him. She could not hear what Pilar was saying, but as she 
smiled at Robert Jordan she blushed dark under the tawny skin and 
then smiled at him again. 

“There is the day also,” the woman said. “You have the night, but 
there is the day, too. Clearly, there is no such luxury as in Valencia 
in my time. But you could pick a few wild strawberries or some- 
thing.” She laughed. 

Robert Jordan put his arm on her big shoulder. “I care for thee, 
too,” he said. “I care for thee very much.” 

“Thou art a regular Don Juan Tenorio,” the woman said, embar- 
rassed now with affection. “There is a commencement of caring for 
every one. Here comes Agustin.” 

Robert Jordan went into the cave and up to where Maria was 
standing. She watched him come toward her, her eyes bright, the 
blush again on her cheeks and throat. 

“Hello, little rabbit,” he said and kissed her on the mouth. She 
held him tight to her and looked in his face and said, “Hello. Oh, 
hello. Hello.” 

Fernando, still sitting at the table smoking a cigarette, stood up, 
shook his head and walked out, picking up his carbine from where 
it leaned against the wall. 

“It is very unformal,” he said to Pilar. “And I do not like it. You 
should take care of the girl.” 

“I am,” said PUar. “That comrade is her notno.” 

“Oh,” said Fernando. “In that case, since they are engaged, I en- 
counter it to be perfectly normal.” 

“I am pleased,” the woman said. 

“Equally,” Fernando agreed gravely. “Sdud, Pilar.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“To the upper post to relieve Primitivo.” 

“Where the hell are you going?” Agustin asked the grave Httle 
man as he came up. 

“To my duty,” Fernando said with dignity. 

“Thy duty,” said Agustin mockingly. “I besmirch the milk of 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 93 

thy duty.” Then turning to the woman, “Where the un-nameable is 
this vileness that I am to guard.?” 

“In the cave,” Pilar said. “In two sacks. And I am tired of thy 
obscenity.” 

“I obscenity in the milk of thy tiredness,” Agustin said. 

“Then go and befoul thyself,” Pilar said to him without heat. 

“Thy mother,” Agustin replied. 

“Thou never had one,” Pilar told him, the insults having reached 
the ultimate formalism in Spanish in which the acts are never stated 
but only implied. 

“What are they doing in there?” Agustin now asked confiden- 
tially. 

“Nothing,” Pilar told him. “Nada. We are, after all, in the spring, 
animal.” 

“Animal,” said Agustin, relishing the word. “Animal. And thou. 
Daughter of the great whore of whores. I befoul myself in the milk 
of the springtime.” 

Pilar slapped him on the shoulder. 

“You,” she said, and laughed that booming laugh. “You lack 
variety in your cursing. But you have force. Did you see the planes?” 

“I un-name in the milk of their motors,” Agustin said, nodding 
his head and biting his lower lip. 

“That’s something,” Pilar said. “That is really something. But 
really difficult of execution.” 

“At that altitude, yes,” Agustin grinned. “Desde luego. But it is bet- 
ter to joke.” 

“Yes,” the woman of Pablo said. “It is much better to joke, and 
you are a good man and you joke with force.” 

“Listen, Pilar,” Agustin said seriously. “Something is preparing. 
Is it not true?” 

“How does it seem to you?” 

“Of a foulness that cannot be worse. Those were many planes, 
woman. Many planes.” 

“And thou hast caught fear from them Uke all the others?” 

“Que va,” said Agustin. “What do you think they are prepar- 
ing?” 

“Look,” Pilar said. “From this boy coming for the bridges obvi- 
ously the Republic is preparing an offensive. From these planes ob- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


94 

viously the Fascists are preparing to meet it. But why show the 
planes?” 

“In this war are many foolish things,” Agustm said. “In this war 
there is an idiocy without bounds.” 

“Clearly,” said Pilar. “Otherwise we could not be here.” 

“Yes,” said Agustin. “We swim within the idiocy for a year now. 
But Pablo is a man of much understanding. Pablo is very wily.” 

“Why do you say this?” 

“I say it.” 

“But you must understand,” Pilar explained. “It is now too late 
to be saved by wiliness and he has lost the other.” 

“I understand,” said Agustm. “I know we must go. And since 
we must win to survive ultimately, it is necessary that the bridges 
must be blown. But Pablo, for the coward that he now is, is very 
smart.” 

“I, too, am smart.” 

“No, Pilar,” Agustm said. “You are not smart. You are brave. 
You are loyal. You have decision. You have intuition. Much decision 
and much heart. But you are not smart.” 

“You believe that?” the woman asked thoughtfully. 

“Yes, Pilar.” 

“The boy is smart,” the woman said. “Smart and cold. Very cold 
in the head.” 

“Yes,” Agustm said. “He must know his business or they would 
not have him doing this. But I do not know that he is smart. Pablo 
I know is smart.” 

“But rendered useless by his fear and his disinclination to action.” 

“But still smart.” 

“And what do you say?” 

“Nothing. I try to consider it inteUigendy. In this moment we need 
to act with intelligence. After the bridge we must leave at once. 
All must be prepared. We must know for where we are leaving and 
how.” 

“Naturally.” 

“For this— Pablo. It must be done smartly.” 

“I have no confidence in Pablo.” 

“In this, yes.” 

“No. You do not know how far he is ruined.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 95 

“Pero es muy vivo. He is very smart. And if we do not do diis 
smartly we are obscenitied.” 

“I will think about it,” Pilar said. “I have the day to think 
about it.” 

“For the bridges; the boy,” Agustm said. “This he must know. 
Look at the fine manner in which the other organized the train.” 

“Yes,” Pilar said. “It was really he who planned all.” 

“You for energy and resolution,” Agustm said. “But Pablo for 
the moving. Pablo for the retreat. Force him now to study it.” 

“You are a man of intelligence.” 

“Intelligent, yes,” Agustin said. “But sin picardia. Pablo for that.” 

“With his fear and all?” 

“With his fear and all.” 

“And what do you think of the bridges?” 

“It is necessary. That I know. Two things we must do. We must 
leave here and we must win. The bridges are necessary if we are 
to win.” 

“If Pablo is so smart, why does he not see that?” 

“He wants things as they are for his own weakness. He wants to 
stay in the eddy of his own weakness. But the river is rising. Forced 
to a change, he will be smart in the change. Es muy vivo!’ 

“It is good that the boy did not kill him.” 

"Que va. The gypsy wanted me to kill him last night. The gypsy 
is an animal.” 

“You’re an animal, too,” she said. “But intelligent.” 

“We are both intelligent,” Agustm said. “But the talent is Pablo!” 

“But difficult to put up with. You do not know how ruined.” 

“Yes. But a talent. Look, Pilar. To make war all you need is in- 
telligence. But to win you need talent and material.” 

“I will think it over,” she said. “We must start now. We are late.” 
Then, raising her voice, “English!” she called. “Ingle si Come on! 
Let us go.” 


CHAPTER TEN 


“Let us rest,” Pilar said to Robert Jordan. “Sit down here, Maria, and 
let us rest.” 

“We should continue,” Robert Jordan said. “Rest when we get 
there. I must see this man.” 

“You will see him,” the woman told him. “There is no hurry. Sit 
down here, Maria.” 

“Come on,” Robert Jordan said. “Rest at the top.” 

“I rest now,” the woman said, and sat down by the stream. The 
girl sat by her in the heather, the sun shining on her hair. Only 
Robert Jordan stood looking across the high mountain meadow with 
the trout brook running through it. There was heather growing 
where he stood. There were gray boulders rising from the yellow 
bracken that replaced the heather in the lower part of the meadow 
and below was the dark line of the pines. 

“How far is it to El Sordo’s.?” he asked. 

“Not far,” the woman said. “It is across this open country, down 
into the next valley and above the timber at the head of the stream. 
Sit thee down and forget thy seriousness.” 

“I want to see him and get it over with.” 

“I want to bathe my feet,” the woman said and, taking off her 
rope-soled shoes and pulling off a heavy wool stocking, she put her 
right foot into the stream. “My God, it’s cold.” 

“We should have taken horses,” Robert Jordan told her. 

“This is good for me,” the woman said. “This is what I have been 
missing. What’s the matter with you.?” 

“Nothing, except that I am in a hurry.” 

“Then calm yourself. There is much time. What a day it is and 
how I am contented not to be in pine trees. You cannot imagine 
how one can tire of pine trees. Aren’t you tired of the pines, guapa?” 

“I like them,” the girl said. 

“What can you like about them?” 

“I like the odor and the feel of the needles under foot I like the 

96 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 97 

wind in the high trees and the creaking they make against each 
other.” 

“You like anything,” Pilar said. “You are a gift to any man if you 
could cook a little better. But the pine tree makes a forest of bore- 
dom. Thou hast never known a forest of beech, nor of oak, nor of 
chestnut. Those are forests. In such forests each tree differs and 
there is character and beauty. A forest of pine trees is boredom. 
What do you say, Ingles?” 

“I like the pines, too.” 

“Pero, venga,” Pilar said. “Two of you. So do I like the pines, but 
we have been too long in these pines. Also I am tired of the moun- 
tains. In mountains there are only two directions. Down and up and 
down leads only to the road and the towns of the Fascists.” 

“Do you ever go to Segovia?” 

“Que va. With this face? This is a face that is known. How 
would you like to be ugly, beautiful one?” she said to Maria. 

“Thou art not ugly.” 

'‘Vamos, I’m not ugly. I was born ugly. All my life I have been 
ugly. You, Ingles, who know nothing about women. Do you know 
how an ugly woman feels? Do you know what it is to be ugly all 
your life and inside to feel that you are beautiful? It is very rare,” 
she put the other foot in the stream, then removed it. “God, it’s 
cold. Look at the water wagtail,” she said and pointed to the gray 
ball of a bird that was bobbing up and down on a stone up the 
stream. “Those are no good for anything. Neither to sing nor to 
eat. Only to jerk their tails up and down. Give me a cigarette, 
Ingles,” she said and taking it, lit it from a flint and steel Ughter 
in the pocket of her shirt. She pufEed on the cigarette and looked 
at Maria and Robert Jordan. 

“Life is very curious,” she said, and blew smoke from her nostrils. ' 
“I would have made a good man, but I am all woman and all ugly. ^ 
Yet many men have loved me and I have loved many men. It is 
curious. Listen, Ingles, this is interesting. Look at me, as ugly as I ( 
am. Look closely, Ingles.” 

“Thou art not ugly.” 

”Que no? Don’t lie to me. Or,” she laughed the deep laugh. “Has 
it begun to work with thee? No. That is a joke. No. Look at the 
ugliness. Yet one has a feeling within one that blinds a man while 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


98 

he loves you. You, with that feeling, blind him, and blind yourself. 
Then one day, for no reason, he sees you ugly as you really are and 
he is not blind any more and then you see yourself as ugly as he sees 
you and you lose your man and your feeling. Do you understand, 
guapa?” She patted the girl on the shoulder. 

“No,” said Maria. “Because thou art not ugly.” 

“Try to use thy head and not thy heart, and Usten,” Pilar said. 
“I am telling you things of much interest. Does it not interest you, 
Ingles?” 

“Yes. But we should' go.” 

“Que va, go. I am very well here. Then,” she went on, addressing 
herself to Robert Jordan now as though she were speaking to a class- 
room; almost as though she were lecturing. “After a while, when 
you are as ugly as I am, as ugly as women can be, then, as I say, 
after a while the feeling, the idiotic feeling that you are beautiful, 
grows slowly in one again. It grows like a cabbage. And then, when 
the feeling is grown, another man sees you and thinks you are beau- 
tiful and it is all to do over. Now I think I am past it, but it stiU 
might come. You are lucky, guapa, that you are not ugly.” 

“But I am ugly,” Maria insisted. 

“Ask himi’ said Pilar. “And don’t put thy feet in the stream be- 
cause it will freeze them.” 

“If Roberto says we should go, I think we should go,” Maria 
said. 

“Listen to you,” Pilar said. “I have as much at stake in this as thy 
Roberto and I say that we are well off resting here by the stream 
and that there is much time. Furthermore, I like to talk. It is the only 
civilized thing we have. How otherwise can we divert ourselves.? 
Does what I say not hold interest for you, Ingles?” 

“You speak very well. But there are other things that interest me 
more than talk of beauty or lack of beauty.” 

“Then let us talk of what interests thee.” 

“Where were you at the start of the movement?” 

“In my town.” 

“Avila?” 

"Que va, Avila.” 

“Pablo said he was from Avila.” 

“He lies. He wanted to take a big city for his town. It was this 
town,” and she named a town. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


99 


“And what happened?” 

“Much,” the woman said. “Much, And all o£ it ugly. Even that 
which was glorious.” 

“Tell me about it,” Robert Jordan said. 

“It is brutal,” the woman said. “I do not like to tell it before the 
girl.” 

“Tell it,” said Robert Jordan. “And if it is not for her, that she 
should not listen.” 

“I can hear it,” Maria said. She put her hand on Robert Jordan’s. 
“There is nothing that I cannot hear.” 

“It isn’t whether you can hear it,” Pilar said. “It is whether I 
should tell it to thee and make thee bad dreams.” 

“I will not get bad dreams from a story,” Maria told her. “You 
think after all that has happened with us I should get bad dreams 
from a story?” 

“Maybe it will give the Ingles bad dreams.” 

“Try it and see.” 

“No, Ingles, I am not joking. Didst thou see the start of the move- 
ment in any small town?” ‘ 

“No,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Then thou hast seen nothing. Thou hast seen the ruin that now 
is Pablo, but you should have seen Pablo on that day.” 

“Tell it.” 

“Nay. I do not want to.” 

“Tell it.” 

“All right, then. I will tell it truly as it was. But thee, guapa, if it 
reaches a point that it molests thee, tell me.” 

“I will not listen to it if it molests me,” Maria told her. “It cannot 
be worse than many things,” 

“I believe it can,” the woman said. “Give me another cigarette, 
Ingles, and vamonos." 

The girl leaned back against the heather on the bank of the stream 
and Robert Jordan stretched himself out, his shoulders against the 
ground and his head against a clump of the heather. He reached out 
and found Maria’s hand and held it in his, rubbing their two hands 
against the heather until she opened her hand and laid it flat on top 
of his as they listened. 

“It was early in the morning when the civiles surrendered at the 
barracks,” Pilar began. 


100 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“You had assaulted the barracks?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“Pablo had surrounded it in the dark, cut the telephone wires, 
placed dynamite under one wall and called on the guardia civil to 
surrender. They would not. And at daylight he blew the wall open. 
There was fighting. Two civiles were killed. Four were wounded and 
four surrendered. 

“We all lay on roofs and on the ground and at the edge of walls 
and of buildings in the early morning light and the dust cloud of 
the explosion had not yet settled, for it rose high in the air and there 
was no wind to carry it, and all of us were firing into the broken 
side of the building, loading and firing into the smoke, and from 
within there was still the flashing of rifles and then there was a 
shout from in the smoke not to fire more, and out came the four 
civiles with their hands up. A big part of the roof had fallen in and 
the wall was gone and they came out to surrender. 

“ ‘Are there more inside?’ Pablo shouted. 

“ ‘There are wounded.’ 

“ ‘Guard these,’ Pablo said to four who had come up from where 
we were firing. ‘Stand there. Against the wall,’ he told the civiles. 
The four civiles stood against the wall, dirty, dusty, smoke-grimed, 
with the four who were guarding them pointing their guns at them 
and Pablo and the others went in to finish the wounded. 

“After they had done this and there was no longer any noise of 
the wounded, neither groaning, nor crying out, nor the noise of 
shooting in the barracks, Pablo and the others came out and Pablo 
had his shotgun slung over his back and was carrying in his hand a 
Mauser pistol. 

“ ‘Look, Pilar,’ he said. ‘This was in the hand of the officer who 
killed himself. Never have I fired a pistol. You,’ he said to one of 
the guards, ‘show me how it works. No. Don’t show me. Tell me.’ 

“The four civiles had stood against the wall, sweating and saying 
nothing while the shooting had gone on inside the barracks. They 
were all tall men with the faces of guardias civiles, which is the same 
model of face as mine is. Except that their faces were covered with 
the small stubble of this their last morning of not yet being shaved 
and they stood there against the wall and said nothing. 

“ ‘You,’ said Pablo to the one who stood nearest him. ‘Tell me how 
it works.’ 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


lOI 


“ ‘Pull the small lever down,’ the man said in a very dry voice. 
‘Pull the receiver back and let it snap forward.’ 

“ ‘What is the receiver?’ asked Pablo, and he looked at the four 
civiles. ‘What is the receiver?’ 

“ ‘The block on top of the action.’ 

“Pablo pulled it back, but it stuck. ‘What now?’ he said. ‘It is 
jammed. You have lied to me.’ 

“ ‘Pull it farther back and let it snap lightly forward,’ the civil 
said, and I have never heard such a tone of voice. It was grayer than 
a morning without sunrise. 

“Pablo pulled and let go as the man had told him and the block 
snapped forward into place and the pistol was cocked with the ham- 
mer back. It is an ugly pistol, small in the round handle, large and 
flat in the barrel, and unwieldy. All this time the civiles had been 
watching him and they had said nothing. 

“ ‘What are you going to do with us?’ one asked him. 

“ ‘Shoot thee,’ Pablo said. 

“ ‘When?’ the man asked in the same gray voice. 

“ ‘Now,’ said Pablo. 

“ ‘Where?’ asked the man. 

“ ‘Here,’ said Pablo. ‘Here. Now. Here and now. Have you any- 
thing to say?’ 

“ ‘Nada,’ said the civil. ‘Nothing. But it is an ugly thing.’ 

“ ‘And you are an ugly thing,’ Pablo said. ‘You murderer of peas- 
ants. You who would shoot your own mother.’ 

“ ‘I have never killed any one,’ the civil said. ‘And do not speak 
of my mother.’ 

“ ‘Show us how to die. You, who have always done the killing.’ 

“ ‘There is no necessity to insult us,’ another civil said. ‘And we 
know how to die.’ 

“ ‘Kneel down against the wall with your heads against the wall,’ 
Pablo told them. The civiles looked at one another. 

“ ‘Kneel, I say,’ Pablo said. ‘Get down and kneel.’ 

“ ‘How does it seem to you, Paco?’ one civil said to the tallest, who 
had spoken with Pablo about the pistol. He wore a corporal’s stripes 
on his sleeves and was sweating very much although the early morn- 
ing was still cool. 

“ ‘It is as well to kneel,’ he answered. ‘It is of no importance.’ 


102 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“ ‘It is closer to the earth,’ the first one who had spoken said, try- 
ing to make a joke, but they were all too grave for a joke and no 
one smiled. 

“ ‘Then let us kneel,’ the first civil said, and the four knelt, look- 
ing very awkward with their heads against the wall and their hands 
by their sides, and Pablo passed behind them and shot each in turn 
in the back of the head with the pistol, going from one to another 
and putting the barrel of the pistol against the back of their heads, 
each man slipping down as he fired. I can hear the pistol still, sharp 
and yet muffled, and see the barrel jerk and the head of the man 
drop forward. One held his head still when the pistol touched it. 
One pushed his head forward and pressed his forehead against the 
stone. One shivered in his whole body and his head was shaking. 
Only one put his hands in front of his eyes, and he was the last one, 
and the four bodies were slumped against the wall when Pablo 
turned away from them and came toward us with the pistol still in 
his hand. 

“ ‘Hold this for me. Pilar,’ he said. ‘I do not know how to put 
down the hammer,’ and he handed me the pistol and stood there 
looking at the four guards as they lay against the wall of the bar- 
racks. All those who were with us stood there too, looking at them, 
and no one said anything. 

“We had won the town and it was still early in the morning and 
no one had eaten nor had any one drunk coffee and we looked at 
each other and we were all powdered with dust from the blowing 
up of the barracks, as powdered as men are at a threshing, and I 
stood holding the pistol and it was heavy in my hand and I felt 
weak in the stomach when I looked at the guards dead there against 
the wall; they all as gray and as dusty as we were, but each one was 
now moistening with his blood the dry dirt by the wall where they 
lay. And as we stood there the sun rose over the far hills and shone 
now on the road where we stood and on the white wall of the 
barracks and the dust in the air was golden in that first sun and the 
peasant who was beside me looked at the wall of the barracks and 
what lay there and then looked at us and then at the sun and said, 
‘V ay a, a day that commences.’ 

“ ‘Now let us go and get coffee,’ I said. 

“ ‘Good, Pilar, good,’ he said. And we went up into the town to 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS IO3 

the Plaza, and those were the last people who were shot in the vil- 
lage.” 

“What happened to the others?” Robert Jordan asked. “Were there 
no other fascists in the village?” 

“Que va, were there no other fascists? There were more than 
twenty. But none was shot.” 

“What was done?” 

“Pablo had them beaten to death with flails and thrown from the 
top of the cliff into the river.” 

“All twenty?” 

“I will tell you. It is not so simple. And in my life never do I wish 
to see such a scene as the flailing to death in the plaza 01. the top of 
the cliff above the river. 

“The town is built on the high bank above the river and there is 
a square there with a fountain and there are benches and there are 
big trees that give a shade for the benches. The balconies of the houses 
look out on the plaza. Six streets enter on the plaza and there is an 
arcade from the houses that goes around the plaza so that one can 
walk in the shade of the arcade when the sun is hot. On three sides 
of the plaz'a is the arcade and on the fourth side is the walk shaded 
by the trees beside the edge of the cliff with, far below, the river. 
It is three hundred feet down to the river. 

“Pablo organized it all as he did the attack on the barracks. 
First he had the entrances to the streets blocked off with carts as 
though to organize the plaza for a capea. For an amateur bull 
fight. The fascists were all held in the Ayuntamiento, the city hall, 
which was the largest building on one side of the plaza. It was 
there the clock was set in the wall and it was in the buildings under 
the arcade that the club of the fascists was. And under the arcade 
on the sidewalk in front of their club was where they had their 
chairs and tables for their club. It was there, before the movement, 
that they were accustomed to take their aperitifs. The chairs and the 
tables were of wicker. It looked like a cafe but was more elegant.” 

“But was there no fighting to take them?” 

“Pablo had them seized in the night before he assaulted the 
barracks. But he had already surrounded the barracks. They were 
all seized in their homes at the same hour the attack started. That 
was intelligent. Pablo is an organizer. Otherwise he would have had 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


104 

people attacking him at his flanks and at his rear while he was as- 
saulting the barracks of the guardia civil. 

“Pablo is very intelligent but very brutal. He had this of the vil- 
lage well planned and well ordered. Listen. After the assault was 
successful, and the last four guards had surrendered, and he had 
shot them against the wall, and we had drunk coffee at the cafe 
that always opened earliest in the morning by the corner from 
which the early bus left, he proceeded to the organization of the 
plaza. Carts were piled exactly as for a capea except that the side 
toward the river was not enclosed. That was left open. Then 
Pablo ordered the priest to confess the fascists and give them the 
necessary sacraments.” 

“Where was this done.?” 

“In the Ayuntamiento, as I said. There was a great crowd out- 
side and while this was going on inside with the priest, there was 
some levity outside and shouting of obscenities, but most of the 
people were very serious and respectful. Those who made jokes 
were those who were already drunk from the celebration of the 
taking of the barracks and there were useless characters who would 
have been drunk at any time, 

“While the priest was engaged in these duties, Pablo organized 
those in the plaza into two lines. 

“He placed them in two lines as you would place men for a 
rope pulling contest, or as they stand in a city to watch the end- 
ing of a bicycle road race with just room for the cyclists to pass 
between, or as men stood to allow the passage of a holy image in a 
procession. Two meters was left between the lines and they ex- 
tended from the door of the Ayuntamiento clear across the plaza to 
the edge of the cliff. So that, from the doorway of the Ayunta- 
miento, looking across the plaza, one coming out would see two 
solid lines of people waiting. 

“They were armed with flails such as are used to beat out the 
grain and they were a good flail’s length a{>art. All did not have 
flails, as enough flails could not be obtained. But most had flails 
obtained from the store of Don Guillermo Martin, who was a 
fascist and sold all sorts of agricultural implements. And those 
who did not have flails had heavy herdsman’s clubs, or ox-goads, 
and some had wooden pitchforks; those with wooden tines that 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


105 

are used to fork the chaff and straw into the air after the flailing. 
Some had sickles and reaping hooks but these Pablo placed at the 
far end where the Hnes reached the edge of the cliff. 

“These Hnes were quiet and it was a clear day, as today is clear, 
and there were clouds high in the sky, as there are now, and the 
plaza was not yet dusty for there had been a heavy dew in the 
night, and the trees cast a shade over the men in the lines and 
you could hear the water running from the brass pipe in the mouth 
of the lion and falling into the bowl of the fountain where the 
women bring the water jars to fill them. 

“Only near the Ayuntamiento, where the priest was complying 
with his duties with the fascists, was there any ribaldry, and that 
came from those worthless ones who, as I said, were already drunk 
and were crowded around the windows shouting obscenities and 
jokes in bad taste in through the iron bars of the windows. Most 
of the men in the lines were waiting quiedy and I heard one say 
to another, ‘Will there be women?’ 

“And another said, ‘I hope to Christ, no.’ 

“Then one said, ‘Here is the woman of Pablo. Listen, Pilar. 
Will there be women?’ 

“I looked at him and he was a peasant dressed in his Sunday 
jacket and sweating heavily and I said, ‘No, Joaquin. There are 
no women. We are not killing the women. Why should we kill 
their women?’ 

“And he said, ‘Thanks be to Christ, there are no women and 
when does it start?’ 

“And I said, ‘As soon as the priest finishes.’ 

‘“And the priest?’ 

“ ‘I don’t know,’ I told him and I saw his face working and the 
sweat coming down on his forehead. ‘I have never killed a man,’ 
he said. 

“ ‘Then you will learn,’ the peasant next to him said. ‘But I do 
not think one blow with this will kill a man,’ and he held his flail 
in both hands and looked at it with doubt. 

“ ‘That is the beauty of it,’ another peasant said. ‘There must be 
many blows.’ 

‘“They have taken Valladolid. They have Avila,’ some one 
said. ‘I heard that before we came into town.’ 


io6 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“‘They will never take this town. This town is ours. We have 
struck ahead of them,’ I said, ‘Pablo is not one to wait for them 
to strike.’ 

“ ‘Pablo is able,’ another said. ‘But in this finishing o£E of the 
civiles he was egoistic. Don’t you think so, Pilar.?’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But now all are pardcipating in this.’ 

“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is well organized. But why do we not hear 
more news of the movement.?’ 

“ ‘Pablo cut the telephone wires before the assault on the bar- 
racks. They are not yet repaired.’ 

“ ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘It is for this we hear nothing. I had my news 
from the road mender’s station early this morning.’ 

“‘Why is this done thus. Pilar.?’ he said to me. 

“‘To save bullets,’ I said. ‘And that each man should have his 
share in the responsibility.’ 

“ ‘That it should start then. That it should start.’ And I looked 
at him and saw that he was crying. 

“ ‘Why are you crying, Joaquin.?’ I asked him . ‘This is not to cry 
about.’ 

“ ‘I cannot help it. Pilar,’ he said. ‘I have never killed any one.’ 

“If you have not seen the day of revoludon in a small town 
where all know aU in the town and always h..v^e known all, you 
have seen nothing. And on this day most of the men in the double 
line across the plaza wore the clothes in which they worked in the 
fields, having come into town hurriedly, but some, not knowing 
hoW one should dress for the first day of a movement, wore their 
clothes for Sundays or hohdays, and these, seeing that the others, 
including those who had attacked the barracks, wore their oldest 
clothes, were ashamed of being wrongly dressed. But they did not 
like to take off their jackets for fear of losing them, or that they 
might be stolen by the worthless ones, and so they stood, sweating 
in the sim ' id waiting for it to commence. 

“Then the wind rose and the dust was now dry in the plaza for 
the men walking and standing and shuffling had loosened it and it 
commenced to blow and a man in a dark blue Sunday jacket 
shouted ‘Agua! Agua!’ and the caretaker of the plaza, whose duty 
it was to sprinkle the plaza each morning with a hose, came and 
turned the hose on and commenced to lay the dust at the edge of 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


107 

the plaza, and then toward the center. Then the two lines fell 
back and let him lay the dust over the center of the plaza; the hose 
sweeping in wide arcs and the water glistening in the sun and 
the men leaning on their flails or the clubs or the white wood 
pitchforks and watching the sweep of the stream of water. And 
then, when the plaza was nicely moistened and the dust settled, 
the lines formed up again and a peasant shouted, ‘When do we 
get the first fascist? When does the first one come out of the box?’ 

“ ‘Soon,’ Pablo shouted from the door of the Ayuntamiento. 
‘Soon the first one comes out.’ His voice was hoarse from shouting 
in the assault and from the smoke of the barracks. 

“‘What’s the delay?’ some one asked. 

“ ‘They’re still occupied with their sins,’ Pablo shouted. 

“ ‘Clearly, there are twenty of them,’ a man said. 

“ ‘More,’ said another. 

“‘Among twenty there are many sins to recount.’ 

“ ‘Yes, but I think it’s a trick to gain time. Surely facing such 
an emergency one could not remember one’s sins except for the 
biggest.’ 

“ ‘Then have patience. For with more than twenty of them 
there are enough of the biggest sins to take some time.’ 

“ ‘I have patience,’ said the other. ‘But it is better to get it over 
with. Both for them and for us. It is July and there is much work. 
We have harvested but we have not threshed. We are not yet in 
the time of fairs and festivals.’ 

“ ‘But this will be a fair and festival today,’ another said. ‘The 
Fair of Liberty and from this day, when these are extinguished, 
the town and the land are ours.’ 

“ ‘We thresh fascists today,’ said one, ‘and out of the chaff comes 
the freedom of this pueblo.’ 

“ ‘We must administer it well to deserve it,’ said another. ‘Pilar,’ 
he said to me, ‘when do we have a meeting for orga. Ization?’ 

“ ‘Immediately after this is completed,’ I told him. ‘In the same 
building of the Ayuntamiento! 

“I was wearing one of the three-cornered patent leather hats of 
the guardia civil as a joke and I had put the hammer down on the 
pistol, holding it with my thumb to lower it as I pulled on the 
trigger as seemed natural, and the pistol was held in a rope I had 


io8 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


around my waist, the long barrel stuck under the rope. And when 
I put it on the joke seemed very good to me, although afterwards I 
wished I had taken the holster of the pistol instead of the hat. But 
one of the men in the line said to me, ‘Pilar, daughter. It seems to 
me bad taste for thee to wear that hat. Now we have finished with 
such things as the guardia civil! 

“ ‘Then,’ I said, ‘I will take it off.’ And I did. 

“ ‘Give it to me,’ he said. ‘It should be destroyed.’ 

“And as we were at the far end of the line where the walk runs 
along the cliff by the river, he took the hat in his hand and sailed 
it off over the cliff with the motion a herdsman makes throwing a 
stone underhand at the bulls to herd them. The hat sailed far out 
into space and we could see it smaller and smaller, the patent leather 
shining in the clear air, sailing down to the river. I looked back over 
the square and at all the windows and all the balconies there were 
people crowded and there was the double hne of men across the 
square to the doorway of the Ayuntamiento and the crowd swarmed 
outside against the windows of that building and there was the noise 
of many people talking, and then I heard a shout and some one said 
‘Here comes the first one,’ and it was Don Benito Garcia, the Mayor, 
and he came out bareheaded walking slowly from the door and down 
the porch and nothing happened; and he walked between the line 
of men with the flails and nothing happened. He passed two men, 
four men, eight men, ten men and nothing happened and he was 
walking between that line of men, his head up, his fat face gray, his 
eyes looking ahead and then flickering from side to side and walk- 
ing steadily. And nothing happened. 

“From a balcony some one cried out, 'Que pasa, cobardes? What 
is the matter, cowards.?’ and still Don Benito walked along between 
the men and nothing happened. Then I saw a man three men down 
from where I was standing and his face was working and he was 
biting his lips and his hands were white on his flail. I saw him look- 
ing toward Don Benito, watching him come on. And still nothing 
happened. Then, just before Don Benito came abreast of this man, 
the man raised his flail high so that it struck the man beside him 
and smashed a blow at Don Benito that hit him on the side of the 
head and Don Benito looked at him and the man struck again and 
shouted, ‘That for you, Cabron! and the blow hit Don Benito in 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


109 

the face and he raised his hands to his face and they beat him until 
he fell and the man who had struck him first called to others to help 
him and he pulled on the collar of Don Benito’s shirt and others 
took hold of his arms and with his face in the dust of the plaza, they 
dragged him over the walk to the edge of the cliff and threw him 
over and into the river. And the man who hit him first was kneeling 
by the edge of the cliff looking over after him and saying, ‘The 
Cabron! The Cabron! Oh, the Cabron!’ He was a tenant of Don 
Benito and they had never gotten along together. There had been 
a dispute about a piece of land by the river that Don Benito had 
taken from this man and let to another and this man had long 
hated him. This man did not join the line again but sat by the cliff 
looking down where Don Benito had fallen. 

“After Don Benito no one would come out. There was no noise 
now in the plaza as all were waiting to see who it was that would 
come out. Then a drunkard shouted in a great voice, ‘Que saiga el 
toro! Let the bull out!’ 

“Then some one, from by the windows of the Ayuntamiento 
yelled, ‘They won’t move! They are all praying!’ 

“Another drunkard shouted, ‘Pull them out. Come on, pull them 
out. The time for praying is finished.’ 

“But none came out and then I saw a man coming out of the door. 

“It was Don Federico Gonz£ez, who owned the mill and feed store 
and was a fascist of the first order. He was tall and thin and his hair 
was brushed over the top of his head from one side to the other to 
cover a baldness and he wore a nightshirt that was tucked into his 
trousers. He was barefooted as when he had been taken from his 
home and he walked ahead of Pablo holding his hands above his 
head, and Pablo walked behind him with the barrels of his shotgun 
pressing against the back of Don Federico Gonzalez until Don 
Federico entered the double line. But when Pablo left him and re- 
turned to the door of the Ayuntamiento, Don Federico could not walk 
forward, and stood there, his eyes turned up to heaven and his hands 
reaching up as though they would grasp the sky. 

“ ‘He has no legs to walk,’ some one said. 

“‘What’s the matter, Don Federico? Can’t you walk?’ some one 
shouted to him. But Don Federico stood there with his hands up and 
only his lips were moving. 


no 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“ ‘Get on,’ Pablo shouted to him from the steps. ‘Walk.’ 

“Don Federico stood there and could not move. One of the 
drunkards poked him in the backside with a flail handle and Don 
Federico gave a quick jump as a balky horse might, but still stood 
in the same place, his hands up, and his eyes up toward the sky. 

“Then the peasant who stood beside me said, ‘This is shameful. I 
have nothing against him but such a spectacle must terminate.’ So he 
walked down the line and pushed through to where Don Federico 
was standing and said, ‘With your permission,’ and hit him a great 
blow alongside of the head with a club. 

“Then Don Federico dropped his hands and put them over the 
top of his head where the bald place was and with his head bent 
and covered by his hands, the thin long hairs that covered the bald 
place escaping through his fingers, he ran fast through the double 
line with flails falling on his back and shoulders until he fell and 
those at the end of the line picked him up and swung him over the 
cliff. Never did he open his mouth from the moment he came out 
pushed by the shotgun of Pablo. His only difficulty was to move 
forward. It was as though he had no command of his legs. 

“After Don Federico, I saw there was a concentration of the 
hardest men at the end of the lines by the edge of the cliff and I left 
there and I went to the Arcade of the Ayuntamiento and pushed 
aside two drunkards and looked in the window. In the big room 
of the Ayuntamiento they were all kneeling in a half circle praying 
and the priest was kneeling and praying with them. Pablo and one 
named Cuatro Dedos, Four Fingers, a cobbler, who was much with 
Pablo then, and two others were standing with shotguns and Pablo 
said to the priest, ‘Who goes now.^’ and the priest went on praying 
and did not answer him. 

“ ‘Listen, you,’ Pablo said to the priest in his hoarse voice, ‘Who 
goes now? Who is ready now?’ 

“The priest would not speak to Pablo and acted as though he were 
not there and I could see Pablo was becoming very angry. 

“ ‘Let us all go together,’ Don Ricardo Montalvo, who was a land 
owner, said to Pablo, raising his head and stopping praying to 
speak. 

“ ‘Que va’, said Pablo. ‘One at a time as you are ready.’ 

“ ‘Then I go now,’ Don Ricardo said. ‘I’ll never be any more 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


III 


ready.’ The priest blessed him as he spoke and blessed him again as 
he stood up, without interrupting his praying, and held up a crucifix 
for Don Ricardo to kiss and Don Ricardo kissed it and then turned 
and said to Pablo, ‘Nor ever again as ready. You Cabron of the bad 
milk. Let us go.’ 

“Don Ricardo was a short man with gray hair and a thick n^ck and 
he had a shirt on with no collar. He was bow-legged from much 
horseback riding. ‘Good-by,’ he said to all those who were kneeling. 
‘Don’t be sad. To die is nothing. The only bad thing is to die at the 
hands of this canalla. Don’t touch me,’ he said to Pablo. ‘Don’t 
touch me with your shotgun.’ 

“He walked out of the front of the Ayuntamiento with his gray 
hair and his small gray eyes and his thick neck looking very short 
and angry. He looked at the double line of peasants and he spat on 
the ground. He could spit actual saliva which, in such a circum- 
stance, as you should know, Ingles, is very rare and he said, ‘Arriba 
Espanal Down with the miscalled Republic and I obscenity in the 
milk of your fathers.’ 

“So they clubbed him to death very quickly because of the insult, 
beating him as soon as he reached the first of the men, beating him 
as he tried to walk with his head up, beating him until he fell and 
chopping at him with reaping hooks and the sickles, and many 
men bore him to the edge of the cliff to throw him over and there 
was blood now on their hands and on their clothing, and now began 
to be the feeling that these who came out were truly enemies and 
should be killed. 

“Until Don Ricardo came out with that fierceness and calling 
those insults, many in the line would have given much, I am sure, 
never to have been in the line. And if any one had shouted from the 
line, ‘Come, let us pardon the rest of them. Now they have had their 
lesson,’ I am sure most would have agreed. 

“But Don Ricardo with all his bravery did a great disservice to 
the others. Fpr he aroused the men in the line and where, before, 
they were performing a duty and with no great taste for it, now 
they were angry, and the difference was apparent. 

“ ‘Let the priest out and the thing will go faster,’ some one shouted. 

“ ‘Let out the priest.’ 

“ ‘We’ve had three thieves, let us have the priest.’ 


II2 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“ ‘Two thieves,’ a short peasant said to the man who had shouted. 
‘It was two thieves with Our Lord.’ 

“‘Whose Lord.^’ the man said, his face angry and red. 

“ ‘In the manner of speaking it is said Our Lord.’ 

“‘He isn’t my Lord; not in joke,’ said the other. ‘And thee hadst 
best watch thy mouth if thou dost not want to walk between the 
lines.’ 

“ ‘I am as good a Libertarian republican as thou,’ the short peasant 
said. ‘I struck Don Ricardo across the mouth. I struck Don Federico 
across the back. I missed Don Benito. But I say Our Lord is the 
formal way of speaking of the man in question and that it was two 
thieves.’ 

“ ‘I obscenity in the milk of thy Republicanism. You speak of 
Don this and Don that.’ 

“ ‘Here are they so called.’ 

“ ‘Not by me, the cabrones. And thy Lord— Hi! Here comes a new 
one!’ 

“It was then that we saw a disgraceful sight, for the man who 
walked out of the doorway of the Ayuntamiento was Don Faustino 
Rivero, the oldest son of his father, Don Celestino Rivero, a land- 
owner. He was tall and his hair was yellow and it was freshly 
combed back from his forehead for he always carried a comb in his 
pocket and he had combed his hair now before coming out. He was 
a great annoyer of girls, and he was a coward, and he had always 
wished to be an amateur bullfighter. He went much with gypsies 
and with bull fighters and with bull raisers and delighted to wear the 
Andalucian costume, but he had no courage and was considered a 
joke. One time he was announced to appear in an amateur benefit 
fight for the old people’s home in Avila and to kill a bull from on 
horseback in the Andalucian style, which he had spent much time 
practising, and when he had seen the size of the bull that had been 
substituted for him in place of the litde one, weak in the legs, he 
had picked out himself, he had said he was sick and, some said, put 
three fingers down his throat to make himself vomit. 

“When the lines saw him, they commenced to shout, 'Hola, Don 
Faustino. Take care not to vomit.’ 

“ ‘Listen to me, Don Faustino. There are beautiful girls over the 
cliff.’ 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS II3 

‘“Don Faustino. Wait a minute and we will bring out a bull 
bigger than the other.’ 

“And another shouted, ‘Listen to me, Don Faustino. Hast thou 
ever heard speak of death?’ 

“Don Faustino stood there, still acting brave. He was still under 
the impulse that had made him announce to the others that he was 
going out. It was the same impulse that had made him announce 
himself for the bullfight. That had made him believe and hope that 
he could be an amateur matador. Now he was inspired by the ex- 
ample of Don Ricardo and he stood there looking both handsome 
and brave and he made his face scornful. But he could not speak. 

“ ‘Come, Don Faustino,’ some one called from the fine. ‘Come, 
Don Faustino. Here is the biggest bull of all.’ 

“Don Faustino stood looking out and I think as he looked, that 
there was no pity for him on either side of the line. Still he looked 
both handsome and superb; but time was shortening and there was 
only one direction to go. 

“ ‘Don Faustino,’ some one called. ‘What are you waiting for, Don 
Faustino?’ 

“ ‘He is preparing to vomit,’ some one said and the lines laughed. 

“ ‘Don Faustino,’ a peasant called. ‘Vomit if it will give thee 
pleasure. To me it is all the same.’ 

“Then, as we watched, Don Faustino looked along the lines and 
across the square to the cliff and then when he saw the cliff and the 
emptyness beyond, he turned quickly and ducked back toward the 
entrance of the Ayuntamiento. 

“All the lines roared and some one shouted in a high voice, ‘Where 
do you go, Don Faustino? Where do you go?’ 

“‘He goes to throw up,’ shouted another and they all laughed 
again. 

“Then we saw Don Faustino coming out again with Pablo behind 
him with the shotgun. All of his style was gone now. The sight of 
the lines had taken away his type and his style and he came out 
now with Pablo behind him as though Pablo were cleaning a street 
and Don Faustino was what he was pushing ahead of him. Don 
Faustino came out now and he was crossing himself and praying 
and then he put his hands in front of his eyes and walked down the 
steps toward the lines. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


1 14 

“ ‘Leave him alone,’ some one shouted. ‘Don’t touch him.’ 

“The lines understood and no one made a move to touch Don 
Faustino and, with his hands shaking and held in front of his eyes, 
and with his mouth moving, he walked along between the lines. 

“No one said anything and no one touched him and, when he 
was halfway through the Unes, he could go no farther and fell to 
his knees. 

“No one struck him. I was walking along parallel to the line to 
see what happened to him and a peasant leaned down and lifted 
him to his feet and said, ‘Get up, Don Faustino, and keep walking. 
The bull has not yet come out.’ 

“Don Faustino could not walk alone and the peasant in a black 
smock helped him on one side and another peasant in a black smock 
and herdsman’s boots helped him on the other, supporting him by 
the arms and Don Faustino walking along between the lines with 
his hands over his eyes, his lips never quiet, and his yellow hair 
slicked on his head and shining in the sun, and as he passed the 
peasants would say, ‘Don Faustino, buen provecho. Don Faustino, 
that you should have a good appetite,’ and others said, ‘Don Faustino, 
A sus ordenes. Don Faustino at your orders,’ and one, who had 
failed at bullfighting himself, said, ‘Don Faustino. Matador, a sus 
ordenes,’ and another said, ‘Don Faustino, there are beautiful girls 
in heaven, Don Faustino.’ And they walked Don Faustino through 
the lines, holding him close on either side, holding him up as he 
walked, with him with his hands over his eyes. But he must have 
looked through his fingers, because when they came to the edge of 
the cliff with him, he knelt again, throwing himself down and 
clutching the ground and holding to the grass, saying, ‘No. No. No. 
Please. NO. Please. Please. No. No.’ 

“Then the peasants who were with him and the others, the hard 
ones of the end of the line, squatted quickly behind him as he knelt, 
and gave him a rushing push and he was over the edge without ever 
having been beaten and you heard him crying loud and high as he 
fell. 

“It was then I knew that the lines had become cruel and it was 
first the insults of Don Ricardo and second the cowardice of Don 
Faustino that had made them so. 

“ ‘Let us have another,’ a peasant called out and another peasant 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS II5 

slapped him on the back and said, ‘Don Faustino! What a thing! 
Don Faustino!’ 

“ ‘He’s seen the big bull now,’ another said. ‘Throwing up will 
never help him, now.’ 

“ ‘In my life,’ another peasant said, ‘in my life I’ve never seen a 
thing like Don Faustino.’ 

“ ‘There are others,’ another peasant said. ‘Have patience. Who 
knows what we may yet see.?” 

“ ‘There may be giants and dwarfs,’ the first peasant said. ‘There 
may be Negroes and rare beasts from Africa. But for me never, never 
will there be anything like Don Faustino. But let’s have another 
one! Come on. Let’s have another one!’ 

“The drunkards were handing around bottles of anis and cognac 
that they had looted from the bar of the club of the fascists, drinking 
them down like wine, and many of the men in the lines were be- 
ginning to be a little drunk, too, from drinking after the strong 
emotion of Don Benito, Don Federico, Don Ricardo and especially 
Don Faustino. Those who did not drink from the bottles of liquor 
were drinking from leather wineskins that were passed about and 
one handed a wineskin to me and I took a long drink, letting the 
wine run cool down my throat from the leather bota for I was very 
thirsty, too. 

“ ‘To kill gives much thirst,’ the man with the wineskin said 
to me. 

“‘Que va’ I said. ‘Hast thou killed?’ 

“ ‘We have killed four,’ he said, proudly. ‘Not counting the civiles. 
Is it true that thee killed one of the civiles, Pilar?’ 

“ ‘Not one,’ I said. ‘I shot into the smoke when the wall fell, as 
did the others. That is all.’ 

“ ‘Where got thee the pistol, Pilar?’ 

“ ‘From Pablo. Pablo gave it to me after he killed the civiles.’ 

“‘Killed he them with this pistol?’ 

“ ‘With no other,’ I said. ‘And then he armed me with it.’ 

“ ‘Can I see it. Pilar? Can I hold it?’ 

“‘Why not, man?’ I said, and I took it out from under the rope 
and handed it to him. But I was wondering why no one else had 
come out and just then who should come out but Don Guillermo 
Martin from whose store the flails, the herdsman’s clubs, and the 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


Il6 

wooden pitchforks had been taken. Don Guillermo was a fascist but 
otherwise there was nothing against him. 

“It is true he paid Uttle to those who made the flails but he 
charged little for them too and if one did not wish to buy flails from 
Don Guillermo, it was possible to make them for nothing more than 
the cost of the wood and the leather. He had a rude way of speaking 
and he was undoubtedly a fascist and a member of their club and he 
sat at noon and at evening in the cane chairs of their club to read 
El Debate, to have his shoes shined, and to drink vermouth and 
seltzer and eat roasted almonds, dried shrimps, and anchovies. But 
one does not kill for that, and I am sure if it had not been for the 
insults of Don Ricardo Montalvo and the lamentable spectacle of 
Don Faustino, and the drinking consequent on the emotion of them 
and the others, some one would have shouted, ‘That Don Guillermo 
should go in peace. We have his flails. Let him go.’ 

“Because the people of this town are as kind as they can be cruel 
and they have a natural sense of justice and a desire to do that which 
is right. But cruelty had entered into the lines and also drunkenness 
or the beginning of drunkenness and the lines were not as they were 
when Don Benito had come out. I do not know how it is in other 
countries, and no one cares more for the pleasure of drinking than I 
do, but in Spain drunkenness, when produced by other elements than 
wine, is a thing of great ugliness and the people do things that they 
would not have done. Is it not so in your country, Ingles?” 

“It is so,” Robert Jordan said. “When I was seven years old and 
going with my mother to attend a wedding in the state of Ohio at 
which I was to be the boy of a pair of boy and girl who carried 
flowers ” 

“Did you do that?” asked Maria. “How nice!” 

“In this town a Negro was hanged to a lamp post and later 
burned. It was an arc light. A light which lowered from the post 
to the pavement. And he was hoisted, first by the mechanism which 
was used to hoist the arc light but this broke ” 

“A Negro,” Maria said. “How barbarous!” 

“Were the people drunk?” asked Pilar. “Were they drunk thus 
to burn a Negro?” 

“I do not know,” Robert Jordan said. “Because I saw it only look- 
ing out from under the blinds of a window in the house which stood 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


II7 

on the corner where the arc light was. The street was full of people 
and when they lifted the Negro up for the second time ” 

“If you had only seven years and were in a house, you could not 
tell if they were drunk or not,” Pilar said, 

“As I said, when they lifted the Negro up for the second time, 
my mother pulled me away from the window, so I saw no more,” 
Robert Jordan said. “But since I have had experiences which demon- 
strate that drunkenness is the same in my country. It is ugly and 
brutal.” 

“You were too young at seven,” Maria said. “You were too young 
for such things. I have never seen a Negro except in a circus. Unless 
the Moors are Negroes,” 

“Some are Negroes and some are not,” Pilar said. “I can talk to 
you of the Moors.” 

“Not as I can,” Maria said. “Nay, not as I can,” 

I “Don’t speak of such things,” Pilar said. “It is unhealthy. Where 
were we.?” 

“Speaking of the drunkenness of the lines,” Robert Jordan said. 
“Go on.” 

“It is not fair to say drunkenness,” Pilar said. “For, yet, they were 
a long way from drunkenness. But already there was a change in 
them, and when Don Guillermo came out, standing straight, near- 
sighted, gray-headed, of medium height, with a shirt with a collar 
button but no collar, standing there and crossing himself once and 
looking ahead, but seeing little without his glasses, but walking for- 
ward well and calmly, he was an appearance to excite pity. But 
some one shouted from the line, ‘Here, Don Guillermo. Up here, 
Don Guillermo. In this direction. Here we all have your products.’ 

“They had had such success joking at Don Faustino that they 
could not see, now, that Don Guillermo was a different thing, and 
if Don Guillermo was to be killed, he should be killed quickly and 
with dignity. 

“ ‘Don Guillermo,’ another shouted, ‘Should we send to the house 
for thy spectacles.?’ 

“Don Guillermo’s house was no house, since he had not much 
money and was only a fascist to be a snob and to console himself that 
he must work for little, running a wooden-implement shop. He was 
a fascist, too, from the religiousness of his wife which he accepted 


ii8 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


as his own due to his love for her. He lived in an apartment in the 
building three houses down the square and when Don Guillermo 
stood there, looking near-sightedly at the lines, the double lines he 
knew he must enter, a woman started to scream from the balcony of 
the apartment where he hved. She could see him from the balcony 
and she was his wife. 

“ ‘Guillermo,’ she cried. ‘Guillermo. Wait and I will be with thee.’ 

“Don Guillermo turned his head toward where the shouting came 
from. He could not see her. He tried to say something but he could 
not. Then he waved his hand in the direction the woman had called 
from and started to walk between the lines. 

“‘Guillermo!’ she cried. ‘Guillermo! Oh, Guillermo!’ She was 
holding her hands on the rail of the balcony and shaking back and 
forth. ‘Guillermo!’ 

“Don Guillermo waved his hand again toward the noise and 
walked into the lines with his head up and you would not have 
known what he was feeling except for the color of his face. 

“Then some drunkard yelled, ‘Guillermo!’ from the lines, imitating 
the high cracked voice of his wife and Don Guillermo rushed toward 
the man, blindly, with tears now running down his cheeks and the 
man hit him hard across the face with his flail and Don Guillermo 
sat down from the force of the blow and sat there crying, but not 
from fear, while the drunkards beat him and one drunkard jumped 
on top of him, astride his shoulders, and beat him with a botde. 
After this many of the men left the lines and their places were taken 
by the drunkards who had been jeering and saying things in bad 
taste through the windows of the Ayuntamiento. 

“I myself had felt much emotion at the shooting of the giiardia 
civil by Pablo,” Pilar said. “It was a thing of great ugliness, but I 
had thought if this is how it must be, this is how it must be, and at 
least there was no cruelty, only the depriving of life which, as we 
all have learned in these years, is a thing of ugliness but also a 
necessity to do if we are to win, and to preserve the Republic. 

“When the square had been closed off and the lines formed, I had 
admired and understood it as a conception of Pablo, although it 
seemed to me to be somewhat fantastic and that it would be neces- 
sary for all that was to be done to be done in good taste if it were 
not to be repugnant. Certainly if the fascists were to be executed by 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


1 19 

the people, it was better for all the people to have a part in it, and I 
wished to share the guilt as much as any, just as I hoped to share 
in the benefits when the town should be ours. But after Don 
Guillermo I felt a feeling of shame and distaste, and with the coming 
of the drunkards and the worthless ones into the lines, and the 
abstention of those who left the lines as a protest after Don Guil- 
lermo, I wished that I might disassociate myself altogether from the 
lines, and I walked away, across the square, and sat down on a bench 
under one of the big trees that gave shade there. 

“Two peasants from the lines walked over, talking together, and 
one of them called to me, ‘What passes with thee. Pilar?’ 

“ ‘Nothing, man,’ I told him. 

“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Speak. What passes.’ 

“ ‘I think that I have a belly-full,’ I told him. 

“ ‘Us, too,’ he said and they both sat down on the bench. One of 
them had a leather wineskin and he handed it to me. 

“ ‘Rinse out thy mouth,’ he said and the other said, going on with 
the talking they had been engaged in, ‘The worst is that it will bring 
bad luck. Nobody can tell me that such things as the killing of Don 
Guillermo in that fashion will not bring bad luck.’ 

“Then the other said, ‘If it is necessary to kill them all, and I am 
not convinced of that necessity, let them be killed decently and 
without mockery.’ 

“ ‘Mockery is justified in the case of Don Faustino,’ the other 
said. ‘Since he was always a farcer and was never a serious man. But 
to mock such a serious man as Don Guillermo is beyond all right.’ 

“ ‘I have a belly-full,’ I told him, and it was literally true because I 
felt an actual sickness in all of me inside and a sweating and a 
nausea as though I had swallowed bad sea food. 

“‘Then, nothing,’ the one peasant said. ‘We will take no further 
part in it. But I wonder what happens in the other towns.’ 

“ ‘They have not repaired the telephone wires yet,’ I said. ‘It is a 
lack that should be remedied.’ 

“ ‘Clearly,’ he said. ‘Who knows but what we might be better em- 
ployed putting the town into a state of defense than massacring peo- 
ple with this slowness and brutality.’ 

“ ‘I will go to speak with Pablo,’ I told them and I stood up from 
the bench and started toward the arcade that led to the door of the 


120 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


Ayuntamiento from where the lines spread across the square. The 
lines now were neither straight nor orderly and there was much and 
very grave drunkenness. Two men had fallen down and lay on their 
backs in the middle of the square and were passing a bottle back and 
forth between them. One would take a drink and then shout, ‘Viva 
la Anar quia!’ lying on his back and shouting as though he were a 
madman. He had a red-and-black handkerchief around his neck. 
The other shouted, ‘Viva la Libertad!’ and kicked his feet in the air 
and then bellowed, ‘Viva la Libertad!’ again. He had a red-and- 
black handkerchief too and he waved it in one hand and waved the 
bottle with the other. 

“A peasant who had left the lines and now stood in the shade of 
the arcade looked at them in disgust and said, ‘They should shout, 
“Long live drunkenness.” That’s all they believe in.’ 

“ ‘They don’t believe even in that,’ another peasant said. ‘Those 
neither understand nor believe in anything.’ 

“Just then, one of the drunkards got to his feet and raised both 
arms with his fists clenched over his head and shouted, ‘Long live 
Anarchy and Liberty and I obscenity in the milk of the Republic!’ 

“The other drunkard who was still lying on his back, took hold of 
the ankle of the drunkard who was shouting and rolled over, so that 
the shouting drunkard fell with him, and they rolled over together 
and then sat up and the one who had pulled the other down put his 
arm around the shouter’s neck and then handed the shouter a bottle 
and kissed the red-and-black handkerchief he wore and they both 
drank together. 

“Just then, a yelling went up from the lines and, looking up the 
arcade, I could not see who it was that was coming out because the 
man’s head did not show above the heads of those crowded about 
the door of the Ayuntamiento. All I could see was that some one 
was being pushed out by Pablo and Cuatro Dedos with their shot- 
guns but I could not see who it was and I moved on close toward the 
lines where they were packed against the door to try to see. 

“There was much pushing now and the chairs and the tables of 
the fascists’ cafe had been overturned except for one table on which 
a drunkard was lying with his head hanging down and his mouth 
open and I picked up a chair and set it against one of the pillars 
and mounted on it so that I could see over the heads of the crowd. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


I2I 


“The man who was being pushed out by Pablo and Cuatro Dedos 
was Don Anastasio Rivas, who was an undoubted fascist and the 
fattest man in the town. He was a grain buyer and the agent for 
several insurance companies and he also loaned money at high rates 
of interest. Standing on the chair, I saw him walk down the steps 
and toward the lines, his fat neck bulging over the back of the collar 
band of his shirt, and his bald head shining in the sun, but he never 
entered them because there was a shout, not as of different men 
shouting, but of all of them. It was an ugly noise and was the cry of 
the drunken lines all yelling together and the lines broke with the 
rush of men toward him and I saw Don Anastasio throw himself 
down with his hands over his head and then you could not see him 
for the men piled on top of him. And when the men got up from 
him, Don Anastasio was dead from his head being beaten against 
the stone flags of the paving of the arcade and there were no more 
lines but only a mob. 

“‘We’re going in,’ they commenced to shout. ‘We’re going in 
after them.’ 

“ ‘He’s too heavy to carry,’ a man kicked at the body of Don 
Anastasio, who was lying there on his face. ‘Let him stay there.’ 

“‘Why should we lug that tub of tripe to the cliff.? Let him lie 
there.’ 

“‘We are going to enter and finish with them inside,’ a man 
shouted. ‘We’re going in.’ 

“ ‘Why wait all day in the sun.?’ another yelled. ‘Come on. Let us 

go-’ 

“The mob was now pressing into the arcade. They were shouting 
and pushing and they made a noise now like an animal and they 
were all shouting ‘Open up! Open up! Open up!’ for the guards had 
shut the doors of the Ayuntamiento when the lines broke. 

“Standing on the chair, I could see in through the barred window 
into the hall of the Ayuntamiento and in there it was as it had been 
before. The priest was standing, and those who were left were 
kneeling in a half circle around him and they were all praying. 
Pablo was sitting on the big table in front of the Mayor’s chair with 
his shotgun slung over his back. His legs were hanging down from 
the table and he was rolling a cigarette. Cuatro Dedos was sitting in 
the Mayor’s chair with his feet on the table and he was smoking a 


122 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


cigarette. All the guards were sitting in different chairs of the ad- 
ministration, holding their guns. The key to the big door was on the 
table beside Pablo. 

“The mob was shouting, ‘Open up! Open up! Open up!’ as 
though it were a chant and Pablo was sitting there as though he did 
not hear them. He said something to the priest but I could not hear 
what he said for the noise of the mob. 

“The priest, as before, did not answer him but kept on praying. 
With many people pushing me, I moved the chair close against the 
wall, shoving it ahead of me as they shoved me from behind. I stood 
on the chair with my face close against the bars of the window and 
held on by the bars. A man climbed on the chair too and stood with 
his arms around mine, holding the wider bars. 

“ ‘The chair will break,’ I said to him. 

“‘What does it matter.?’ he said. ‘Look at them. Look at them 
pray.’ 

“His breath on my neck smelled like the smell of the mob, sour, 
like vomit on paving stones and the smell of drunkenness, and then 
he put his mouth against the opening in the bars with his head over 
my shoulder, and shouted, ‘Open up! Open!’ and it was as though 
the mob were on my back as a devil is on your back in a dream. 

“Now the mob was pressed tight against the door so that those 
in front were being crushed by all the others who were pressing and 
from the square a big drunkard in a black smock with a red-and- 
black handkerchief around his neck, ran and threw himself against 
the press of the mob and fell forward onto the pressing men and 
then stood up and backed away and then ran forward again and 
threw himself against the backs of those men who were pushing, 
shouting, ‘Long live me and long live Anarchy.’ 

“As I watched, this man turned away from the crowd and went 
and sat down and drank from a bottle and then, while he was sitting 
down, he saw Don Anastasio, who was still lying face down on the 
stones, but much trampled now, and the drunkard got up and went 
over to Don Anastasio and leaned over and poured out of the bottle 
onto the head of Don Anastasio and onto his clothes, and then he 
took a matchbox out of his pocket and lit several matches, trying to 
make a fire with Don Anastasio. But the wind was blowing hard 
now and it blew the matches out and after a Htde the big drunkard 


FOR WHOM THE BELL-^TOLLS 


123 

sat there by Don Anastasio, shaking his head and drinking out of 
the bottle and every once in a while, leaning over and patting Don 
Anastasio on the shoulders of his dead body. 

“All this time the mob was shouting to open up and the man on 
the chair with me was holding tight to the bars of the window and 
shouting to open up until it deafened me with his voice roaring 
past my ear and his breath foul on me and I looked away from 
watching the drunkard who had been trying to set fire to Don Ana- 
stasio and into the hall of the Ayuntamiento again; and it was just 
as it had been. They were still praying as they had been, the men all 
kneeling, with their shirts open, some with their heads down, others 
with their heads up, looking toward the priest and toward the 
crucifix that he held, and the priest praying fast and hard and look- 
ing out over their heads, and in back of them Pablo, with his ciga- 
rette now lighted, was sitting there on the table swinging his legs, 
his shotgun slung over his back, and he was playing with the key. 

“I saw Pablo speak to the priest again, leaning forward from the 
table and I could not hear what he said for the shouting. But the 
priest did not answer him but went on praying. Then a man stood 
up from among the half circle of those who were praying and I saw 
he wanted to go out. It was Don Jose Castro, whom every one called 
Don Pepe, a confirmed fascist, and a dealer in horses, and he stood 
up now small, neat-looking even unshaven and wearing a pyjama 
top tucked into a pair of gray-striped trousers. He kissed the crucifix 
and the priest blessed him and he stood up and looked at Pablo and 
jerked his head toward the door. 

“Pablo shook his head and went on smoking. I could see Don 
Pepe say something to Pablo but could not hear it. Pablo did not 
answer; he simply shook his head again and nodded toward the door. 

“Then I saw Don Pepe look full at the door and realized that he 
had not known it was locked. Pablo showed him the key and he 
stood looking at it an instant and then he turned and went and 
knelt down again. I saw the priest look around at Pablo and Pablo 
grinned at him and showed him the key and the priest seemed to 
realize for the first time that the door was locked and he seemed 
as though he started to shake his head, but he only inclined it and 
went back to praying. 

“I do not know how they could not have understood the door was 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


124 

locked unless it was that they were so concentrated on their praying 
and their own thoughts; but now they certainly understood and they 
understood the shouting and they must have known now that all was 
changed. But they remained the same as before. 

“By now the shouting was so that you could hear nothing and 
the drunkard who stood on the chair with me shook with his hands 
at the bars and yelled, ‘Open up! Open up!’ until he was hoarse. 

“I watched Pablo speak to the priest again and the priest did not 
answer. Then I saw Pablo unsling his shotgun and he reached over 
and tapped the priest on the shoulder with it. The priest paid no 
attention to him and I saw Pablo shake his head. Then he spoke 
over his shoulder to Cuatro Dedos and Cuatro Dedos spoke to the 
other guards and they all stood up and walked back to the far end 
of the room and stood there with their shotguns. 

“I saw Pablo say something to Cuatro Dedos and he moved over 
two tables and some benches and the guards stood behind them with 
their shotguns. It made a barricade in that corner of the room. 
Pablo leaned over and tapped the priest on the shoulder again with 
the shotgun and the priest did not pay any attention to him but I 
saw Don Pepe watching him while the others paid no attention but 
went on praying. Pablo shook his head and, seeing Don Pepe look- 
ing at him, he shook his head at Don Pepe and showed him the key, 
holding it up in his hand. Don Pepe understood and he dropped his 
head and commenced to pray very fast. 

“Pablo swung his legs down from the table and walked around it 
to the big chair of the Mayor on the raised platform behind the long 
council table. He sat down in it and rolled himself a cigarette, all 
the time watching the fascists who were praying with the priest. 
You could not see any expression on his face at aU. The key was 
on the table in front of him. It was a big key of iron, over a foot 
long. Then Pablo called to the guards something I could not hear 
and one guard went down to the door. I could see them all praying 
faster than ever and I knew that they all knew now. 

“Pablo said something to the priest but the priest did not answer. 
Then Pablo leaned forward, picked up the key and tossed it under- 
hand to the guard at the door. The guard caught it and Pablo 
smiled at him. Then the guard put the key in the door, turned it, 
and pulled the door toward him, ducking behind it as the mob 
rushed in. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


125 

“I saw them come in and just then the drunkard on the chair with 
me commenced to shout ‘Ayee! Ayee! Ayee!’ and pushed his head 
forward so I could not see and then he shouted ‘Kill them! Kill 
them! Club them! Kill them!’ and he pushed me aside with his two 
arms and I could see nothing. 

“I hit my elbow into his belly and I said, ‘Drunkard, whose chair 
is this? Let me see.’ 

“But he just kept shaking his hands and arms against the bars and 
shouting, ‘Kill them! Club them! Club them! that’s it. Club them! 
Kill them! Cabronesl Cabrones! Cabronesl’ 

“I hit him hard with my elbow and said, 'Cabronl Drunkard! Let 
me see.’ 

“Then he put both his hands on my head to push me down and 
so he might see better and leaned all his weight on my head and 
went on shouting, ‘Club them! that’s it. Club them!’ 

“ ‘Club yourself,’ I said and I hit him hard where it would hurt 
him and it hurt him and he dropped his hands from my head and 
grabbed himself and said. Wo hay derecho, mujer. This, woman, you 
have no right to do.’ And in that moment, looking through the bars, 
I saw the hall full of men flailing away with clubs and striking with 
flails, and poking and striking and pushing and heaving against 
people with the white wooden pitchforks that now were red and 
with their tines broken, and this was going on all over the room 
while Pablo sat in the big chair with his shotgun on his knees, watch- 
ing, and they were shouting and clubbing and stabbing and men 
were screaming as horses scream in a fire. And I saw the priest with 
his skirts tucked up scrambling over a bench and those after him 
were chopping at him with the sickles and the reaping hooks and 
then some one had hold of his robe and there was another scream 
and another scream and I saw two men chopping into his back with 
sickles while a third man held the skirt of his robe and the priest’s 
arms were up and he was clinging to the back of a chair and then 
the chair I was standing on broke and the drunkard and I were on 
the pavement that smelled of spilled wine and vomit and the drunk- 
ard was shaking his finger at me and saying, ‘No hay derecho mujer, 
no hay derecho. You could have done me an injury,’ and the people 
were trampling over us to get into the hall of the Ayuntamiento and 
all I could see was legs of people going in the doorway and the 


126 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


drunkard sitting there facing me and holding himself where I had 
hit him. 

“That was the end of the killing of the fascists in our town and I 
was glad I did not see more of it and, but for that drunkard, I 
would have seen it all. So he served some good because in the 
Ayuntamiento it was a thing one is sorry to have seen. 

“But the other drunkard was something rarer still. As we got up 
after the breaking of the chair, and the people were still crowding 
into the Ayuntamiento, I saw this drunkard of the square with his 
red-and-black scarf, again pouring something over Don Anastasio. 
He was shaking his head from side to side and it was very hard for 
him to sit up, but he was pouring and lighting matches and then 
pouring and lighting matches and I walked over to him and said, 
‘What are you doing, shameless.?’ 

“ ‘Nada, mujer, nada,’ he said. ‘Let me alone.’ 

“And perhaps because I was standing there so that my legs made 
a shelter from the wind, the match caught and a blue flame began 
to run up the shoulder of the coat of Don Anastasio and onto the 
back of his neck and the drunkard put his head up and shouted in a 
huge voice, ‘They’re burning the dead! They’re burning the dead!’ 

“ ‘Who.?’ somebody said. 

“‘Where.?’ shouted some one else. 

“ ‘Here,’ bellowed the drunkard. ‘Exactly here!’ 

“Then some one hit the drunkard a great blow alongside the head 
with a flail and he fell back, and lying on the ground, he looked up 
at the man who had hit him and then shut his eyes and crossed his 
hands on his chest, and lay there beside Don Anastasio as though he 
were asleep. The man did not hit him again and he lay there and 
he was still there when they picked up Don Anastasio and put him 
with the others in the cart that hauled them all over to the ch£E 
where they were thrown over that evening with the others after there 
had been a cleaning up in the Ayuntamiento. It would have been 
better for the town if they had thrown over twenty or thirty of the 
drunkards, especially those of the red-and-black scarves, and if we 
ever have another revolution I believe they should be destroyed at 
the start. But then we did not know this. But in the next days we 
were to learn. 

“But that night we did not know what was to come. After the 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


127 

slaying in the Ayuntamiento there was no more killing but we could 
not have a meeting that night because there were too many drunk- 
ards. It was impossible to obtain order and so the meeting was post- 
poned until the next day. 

“That night I slept with Pablo. I should not say this to you, guapa, 
but on the other hand, it is good for you to know everything and at 
least what I tell you is true. Listen to this, Ingles. It is very curious. 

“As I say, that night we ate and it was very curious. It was as after 
a storm or a flood or a battle and every one was tired and no one 
spoke much. I, myself, felt hollow and not well and I was full of 
shame and a sense of wrongdoing and I had a great feeling of 
oppression and of bad to come, as this morning after the planes. And 
certainly, bad came within three days. 

“Pablo, when we ate, spoke little. 

‘“Did you like it. Pilar.?’ he asked, finally with his mouth full of 
roast young goat. We were eating at the inn from where the busses 
leave and the room was crowded and people were singing and there 
was difficulty serving. 

“ ‘No,’ I said. ‘Except for Don Faustino, I did not like it.’ 

“ ‘I liked it,’ he said. 

“‘All of it.?’ I asked him. 

“ ‘All of it,’ he said and cut himself a big piece of bread with his 
knife and commenced to mop up gravy with it. ‘All of it, except the 
priest.’ 

“‘You didn’t like it about the priest.?’ because I knew he hated 
priests even worse than he hated fascists. 

“ ‘He was a disillusionment to me,’ Pablo said sadly. 

“So many people were singing that we had to almost shout to 
hear one another. 

“ ‘Why.?’ 

“ ‘He died very badly,’ Pablo said. ‘He had very little dignity.’ 

“ ‘How did you want him to have dignity when he was being 
chased by the mob.?’ I said. ‘I thought he had much dignity all the 
time before. All the dignity that one could have.’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ Pablo said. ‘But in the last minute he was frightened.’ 

“‘Who wouldn’t be.?’ I said. ‘Did you see what they were chasing 
him with.?’ 

“ ‘Why would I not see.?’ Pablo said. ‘But I find he died badly.’ 


128 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


‘“In such circumstances any one dies badly,’ I told him. ‘What 
do you want for your money.? Everything that happened in the 
Ayuntamiento was scabrous.’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ said Pablo. ‘There was little organization. But a priest. He 
has an example to set.’ 

“ ‘I thought you hated priests.’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ said Pablo and cut some more bread. ‘But a Spanish priest. 
A Spanish priest should die very well.’ 

“‘I think he died well enough,’ I said. ‘Being deprived of all 
formality.’ 

“ ‘No,’ Pablo said. ‘To me he was a great disillusionment. All day 
I had waited for the death of the priest. I had thought he would be 
the last to enter the lines. I awaited it with great anticipation. I 
expected something of a culmination. I had never seen a priest 
die.’ 

“ ‘There is time,’ I said to him sarcastically. ‘Only today did the 
movement start.’ 

“ ‘No,’ he said. ‘I am disillusioned.’ 

“ ‘Now,’ I said. ‘I suppose you will lose your faith.’ 

“ ‘You do not understand. Pilar,’ he said. ‘He was a Spanish priest.’ 

“ ‘What people the Spaniards are,’ I said to him. And what a 
people they are for pride, eh, Ingles? What a people.” 

“We must get on,” Robert Jordan said. He looked at the sun. “It’s 
nearly noon.” 

“Yes,” Pilar said. “We will go now. But let me tell you about 
Pablo. That night he said to me, ‘Pilar, tonight we will do nothing.’ 

“ ‘Good,’ I told him. ‘That pleases me.’ 

“ ‘I think it would be bad taste after the killing of so many people.’ 

“‘Que va' I told him. ‘What a saint you are. You think I lived 
years with bullfighters not to know how they are after the ODrrida.?’ 

“‘Is it true. Pilar.?’ he asked me. 

“‘When did I lie to you.?’ I told him. 

“‘It is true. Pilar, I am a finished man this night. You do not 
reproach me.?’ 

“ ‘No, hombre,’ I said to him. ‘But don’t kill people every day, 
Pablo.’ 

“And he slept that night like a baby and I woke him in the morn- 
ing at daylight but I could not sleep that night and I got up and 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS I29 

sat in a chair and looked out of the window and I could see the 
square in the moonlight where the lines had been and across the 
square the trees shining in the moonlight, and the darkness of their 
shadows, and the benches bright too in the moonlight, and the scat- 
tered bottles shining, and beyond the edge of the cliff where they had 
all been thrown. And there was no sound but the splashing of the 
water in the fountain and I sat there and I thought we have begun 
badly. 

“The window was open and up the square from the Fonda I could 
hear a woman crying. I went out on the balcony standing there in 
my bare feet on the iron and the moon shone on the faces of all the 
buildings of the square and the crying was coming from the balcony 
of the house of Don Guillermo. It was his wife and she was on the 
balcony kneeling and crying. 

“Then I went back inside the room and I sat there and I did not 
wish to think for that was the worst day of my life until one other 
day.” 

“What was the other?” Maria asked. 

“Three days later when the fascists took the town.” 

“Do not tell me about it,” said Maria. “I do not want to hear it. 
This is enough. This was too much.” 

“I told you that you should not have listened,” Pilar said. “See. I 
did not want you to hear it. Now you will have bad dreams.” 

“No,” said Maria. “But I do not want to hear more.” 

“I wish you would tell me of it sometime,” Robert Jordan said. 

“I will,” Pilar said. “But it is bad for Maria.” 

“I don’t want to hear it,” Maria said pitifully. “Please, Pilar. And 
do not tell it if I am there, for I might listen in spite of myself.” 

Her lips were working and Robert Jordan thought she would cry. 

“Please, Pilar, do not tell it.” 

“Do not worry, little cropped head,” Pilar said. “Do not worry. 
But I will tell the Ingles sometime.” 

“But I want to be there when he is there,” Maria said. “Oh, Pilar, 
do not tell it at all.” 

“I will tell it when thou art working.” 

“No. No. Please. Let us not tell it at all,” Maria said. 

“It is only fair to tell it since I have told what we did,” Pilar said. 
“But you shall never hear it.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


130 

“Are there no pleasant things to speak of?” Maria said. “Do we 
have to talk always of horrors?” 

“This afternoon,” Pilar said, “thou and the Ingles. The two of you 
can speak of what you wish.” 

“Then that the afternoon should come,” Maria said. “That it 
should come flying.” 

“It will come,” Pilar told her. “It will come flying and go the 
same way and tomorrow will fly, too.” 

“This afternoon,” Maria said. “This afternoon. That this after- 
noon should come.” 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 


As THEY came up, still deep in the shadow of the pines, after drop- 
ping down from the high meadow into the wooden valley and 
climbing up it on a trail that paralleled the stream and then left 
it to gain, steeply, the top of a rim-rock formation, a man with a 
carbine stepped out from behind a tree. 

“Halt,” he said. Then, “Hola, Pilar. Who is this with thee?” 

“An Ingles,” Pilar said. “But with a Christian name— Roberto. 
And what an obscenity of steepness it is to arrive here.” 

“Salud, Camarada,” the guard said to Robert Jordan and put out 
his hand. “Are you well?” 

“Yes,” said Robert Jordan. “And thee?” 

“Equally,” the guard said. He was very young, with a light build, 
thin, rather hawk-nosed face, high cheekbones and gray eyes. He 
wore no hat, his hair was black and shaggy and his handclasp was 
strong and friendly. His eyes were friendly too. 

“Hello, Maria,” he said to the girl. “You did not tire yourself?” 

“Que va, Joaquin,” the girl said. “We have sat and talked more 
than we have walked.” 

“Are you the dynamiter?” Joaquin asked. “We have heard you 
were here.” 

“We passed the night at Pablo’s,” Robert Jordan said. “Yes, I am 
the dynamiter.” 

“We are glad to see you,” Joaquin said. “Is it for a train?” 

“Were you at the last train?” Robert Jordan asked and smiled. 

“Was I not,” Joaquin said. “That’s where we got this,” he 
grinned at Maria. “You are pretty now,” he said to Maria. “Have 
they told thee how pretty?” 

“Shut up, Joaquin and thank you very much,” Maria said. “You’d 
be pretty with a haircut.” 

“I carried thee,” Joaquin told the girl. “I carried thee over my 
shoulder.” 

“As did many others,” Pilar said in the deep voice. “Who didn’t 
carry her? Where is the old man?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


132 

“At the camp.” 

“Where was he last night.?” 

“In Segovia.” 

“Did he bring news?” 

“Yes,” Joaquin said, “there is news.” 

“Good or bad?” 

“I believe bad.” 

“Did you see the planes?” 

“Ay,” said Joaquin and shook his head. “Don’t talk to me o£ that. 
Comrade Dynamiter, what planes were those?” 

“Heinkel one eleven bombers. Heinkel and Fiat pursuit,” Robert 
Jordan told him. 

“What were the big ones with the low wings?” 

“Heinkel one elevens.” 

“By any names they are as bad,” Joaquin said. “But I am delay- 
ing you. I will take you to the commander.” 

“The commander?” Pilar asked. 

Joaquin nodded seriously. “I hke it better than ‘chief’,” he said. 
“It is more military.” 

“You are militarizing heavily,” Pilar said and laughed at him. 

“No,” Joaquin said. “But I like military terms because it makes 
orders clearer and for better discipline.” 

“Here is one according to thy taste, Ingles," Pilar said. “A very 
serious boy.” 

“Should I carry thee?” Joaquin asked the girl and put his arm 
on her shoulder and smiled in her face. 

“Once was enough,” Maria told him. “Thank you just the same.” 

“Can you remember it?” Joaquin asked her. 

“I can remember being carried,” Maria said. “By you, no. I re- 
member the gypsy because he dropped me so many times. But I 
thank thee, Joaquin, and I’ll carry thee sometime.” 

“I can remember it well enough,” Joaquin said. “I can remem- 
ber holding thy two legs and thy belly was on my shoulder and 
thy head over my back and thy arms hanging down against my 
back.” 

“Thou hast much memory,” Maria said and smiled at him. “I 
remember nothing of that. Neither thy arms nor thy shoulders nor 
thy back.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


133 


“Do you want to know something?” Joaquin asked her. 

“What is it?” 

“I was glad thou wert hanging over my back when the shots 
were coming from behind us.” 

“What a swine,” Maria said. “And was it for this the gypsy too 
carried me so much?” 

“For that and to hold onto thy legs.” 

“My heroes,” Maria said. “My saviors.” 

“Listen, guapa,” Pilar told her. “This boy carried thee much, and 
in that moment thy legs said nothing to any one. In that moment 
only the bullets talked clearly. And if he would have dropped thee 
he could soon have been out of range of the bullets.” 

“I have thanked him,” Maria said. “And I will carry him some- 
time. Allow us to joke. I do not have to cry, do I, because he car- 
ried me?” 

“I’d have dropped thee,” Joaquin went on teasing her. “But I 
was afraid Pilar would shoot me.” 

“I shoot no one,” Pilar said. 

“No hace jalta” Joaquin told her. “You don’t need to. You scare 
them to death with your mouth.” 

“What a way to speak,” Pilar told him. “And you used to be 
such a polite little boy. What did you do before the movement, 
little boy?” 

“Very little,” Joaquin said. “I was sixteen.” 

“But what, exactly?” 

“A few pairs of shoes from time to time.” 

“Make them?” 

“No. Shine them.” 

“Que va” said Pilar. “There is more to it than that.” She looked 
at his brown face, his lithe build, his shock of hair, and the quick 
heel-and-toe way that he walked. “Why did you fail at it?” 

“Fail at what?” 

“What? You know what. You’re growing the pigtail now.” 

“I guess it was fear,” the boy said. 

“You’ve a nice figure,” Pilar told him. “But the face isn’t much. 
So it was fear, was it? You were all right at the train.” 

“I have no fear of them now,” the boy said. “None. And we have 
seen much worse things and more dangerous than the bulls. It is 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


X34 

clear no bull is as dangerous as a machine-gun. But if I were in 
the ring with one now I do not know if I could dominate my legs.” 

“He wanted to be a bullfighter,” Pilar explained to Robert Jor- 
dan. “But he was afraid.” 

“Do you like the bulls, Comrade Dynamiter?” Joaquin grinned, 
showing white teeth. 

“Very much,” Robert Jordan said. “Very, very much.” 

“Have you seen them in Valladolid?” asked Joaquin. 

“Yes. In September at the feria.” 

“That’s my town,” Joaquin said. “What a fine town but how the 
huena gente, the good people of that town, have suffered in this 
war.” Then, his face grave, “There they shot my father. My mother. 
My brother-in-law and now my sister.” 

“What barbarians,” Robert Jordan said. 

How many times had he heard this? How many times had he 
watched people say it with difficulty? How many times had he seen 
their eyes fill and their throats harden with the difficulty of saying 
my father, or my brother, or my mother, or my sister? He could 
not remember how many times he had heard them mention their 
dead in this way. Nearly always they spoke as this boy did now; 
suddenly and apropos of the mention of the town and always you 
said, “What barbarians.” 

You only heard the statement of the loss. You did not see the 
father fall as Pilar made him see the fascists die in that story she 
had told by the stream. You knew the father died in some court- 
yard, or against some wall, or in some field or orchard, or at night, 
in the lights of a truck, beside some road. You had seen the lights 
of the car from the hills and heard the shooting and afterwards 
you had come down to the road and found the bodies. You did not 
see the mother shot, nor the sister, nor the brother. You heard 
about it; you heard the shots; and you saw the bodies. 

Pilar had made him see it in that town. 

If that woman could only write. He would try to write it and if 
he had luck and could remember it perhaps he could get it down 
as she told it. God, how she could tell a story. She’s better than 
Quevedo, he thought. He never wrote the death of any Don Faustino 
as well as she told it. I wish I could write well enough to write that 
story, he thought. What we did. Not what the others did to us. He 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


135 

knew enough about that. He knew plenty about that behind the 
lines. But you had to have known the people before. You had to 
know what they had been in the village. 

Because of our mobility and because we did not have to stay 
afterwards to take the punishment we never knew how anything 
really ended, he thought. You stayed with a peasant and his family. 
You came at night and ate with them. In the day you were hidden 
and the next night you were gone. You did your job and cleared 
out. The next time you came that way you heard that they had 
been shot. It was as simple as that. 

But you were always gone when it happened. The partizans did 
their damage and pulled out. The peasants stayed and took the 
punishment. I’ve always known about the other, he thought. What 
we did to them at the start. I’ve always known it and hated it and 
I have heard it mentioned shamelessly and shamefully, bragged of, 
boasted of, defended, explained and denied. But that damned 
woman made me see it as though I had been there. 

Well, he thought, it is part of one’s education. It will be quite ah 
education when it’s finished. You learn in this war if you listen. 
You most certainly did. He was lucky that he had lived parts of 
ten years in Spain before the war. They trusted you on the lan- 
guage, principally. They trusted you on understanding the language 
completely and speaking it idiomatically and having a knowledge 
of the different places A Spaniard was only really loyal to his vil- 
lage in the end. First Spain of course, then his own tribe, then his 
province, then his village, his family and finally his trade. If you 
knew Spanish he was prejudiced in your favor, if you knew his 
province it was that much better, but if you knew his village and 
his trade you were in as far as any foreigner ever could be. He 
never felt like a foreigner in Spanish and they did not really treat 
him like a foreigner most of the time; only when they turned on 
you. 

Of course they turned on you. They turned on you often but they 
always turned on every one. They turned on themselves, too. If you 
had three together, two would unite against one, and then the 
two would start to betray each other. Not always, but often enough 
for you to take enough cases and start to draw it as a conclusion. 

This was no way to think; but who censored his thinking.? No- 


FOE WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


/ 136 

body but himself. He would not think himself into any defeat- 
ism. The first thing was to win the war. If we did not win the war 
everything was lost. But he noticed, and listened to, and remembered 
everything. He was serving in a war and he gave absolute loyalty 
and as complete performance as he could give while he was serv- 
ing. But nobody owned his mind, nor his faculties for seeing and 
hearing, and if he were going to form judgments he would form 
them afterwards. And there would be plenty of material to draw 
them from. There was plenty already. There was a htde too much 
sometimes. 

Look at the Pilar woman, he thought. No matter what comes. If 
there is time, I must make her tell me the rest of that story. Look 
at her walking along with those two kids. You could not get three 
better-looking products of Spain than those. She is like a mountain 
and the boy and the girl are Hke young trees. The old trees are all 
cut down and the young trees are growing clean hke that. In spite 
of what has happened to the two of them they look as fresh and 
clean and new and untouched as though they had never heard of 
misfortune. But according to Pilar, Maria has just gotten sound 
again. She must have been in an awful shape. 

He remembered a Belgian boy in the Eleventh Brigade who had 
enlisted with five other boys from his village. It was a village of 
about two hundred people and the boy had never been away from 
the village before. When he first saw the boy, out at Hans’ Brigade 
Staff, the other five from the village had all been killed and the 
boy was in very bad shape and they were using him as an orderly 
to wait on table at the staff. He had a big, blond, ruddy Flemish 
face and huge awkward peasant hands and he moved, with the 
dishes, as powerfully and awkwardly as a draft horse. But he cried 
all the time. All during the meal he cried with no noise at all. 

You looked up and there he was, crying. If you asked for the 
wine, he cried and if you passed your plate for stew, he cried; turn- 
ing away his head. Then he would stop; but If you looked up at 
him, tears would start coming again. Between courses he cried in 
the kitchen. Every one was very gentle with him. But it did no 
good. He would have to find out what became of him and whether 
he ever cleared up and was fit for soldiering again. 

Maria was sound enough now. She seemed so anyway. But 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


137 

he was no psychiatrist. Pilar was the psychiatrist. It probably 
had been good for them to have oeen rugettier last night. Yes, 
unless it stopped. It certainly had been good for him. He felt fine 
today; sound and good and un worried and happy. The show 
looked bad enough but he was awfully lucky, too. He had been 
in others that announced themselves badly. Announced themselves; 
that was thinking in Spanish. Maria was lovely. 

Look at her, he said to himself. Look at her. 

He looked at her striding happily in the sun; her khaki shirt open 
at the neck. She walks like a colt moves, he thought. You do not 
run onto something like that. Such things don’t happen. Maybe it 
never did happen, he thought. Maybe you dreamed it or made it up 
and it never did happen. Maybe it is like the dreams you have 
when some one you have seen in the cinema comes to your bed at 
night and is so kind and lovely. He’d slept with them all that way 
when he was asleep in bed. He could remember Garbo still, and 
Harlow. Yes, Harlow many times. Maybe it was like those dreams. 

But he could still remember the time Garbo came to his bed the 
night before the attack at Pozoblanco and she was wearing a soft 
silky wool sweater when he put his arm around her and when she 
leaned forward her hair swept forward and over his face and she 
said why had he never told her that he loved her when she had 
loved him all this time.? She was not shy, nor cold, nor distant. She 
was just lovely to hold and kind and lovely and like the old 
days with Jack Gilbert and it was as true as though it happened 
and he loved her much more than Harlow though Garbo was only 
there once while Harlow maybe this was like those dreams. 

Maybe it isn’t too, he said to himself. Maybe I could reach over and 
touch that Maria now, he said to himself. Maybe you are afraid to 
he said to himself. Maybe you would find out that it never happened 
and it was not true and it was something you made up like those 
dreams about the people of the cinema or how all your old girls come 
back and sleep in that robe at night on all the bare floors, in the 
straw of the haybarns, the stables, the corrales and cortijos, the 
woods, the garages, the trucks and all the hills of Spain. They all 
came to that robe when he was asleep and they were all much nicer 
than they ever had been in life. Maybe it was like that. Maybe you 
would be afraid to touch her to see if it was true. Maybe you would, 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


138 

and probably it is something that you made up or that you dreamed. 

He took a step across the trail and put his hand on the girl’: 
arm. Under his fingers he felt the smoothness of her arm in the 
worn khaki. She looked at him and smiled. 

“Hello, Maria,” he said. 

“Hello, Ingles," she answered and he saw her tawny brown 
face and the yellow-gray eyes and the full lips smiling and the 
cropped sun-burned hair and she lifted her face at him and smiled 
in his eyes. It was true all right. 

Now they were in sight of El Sordo’s camp in the last of the 
pines, where there was a rounded gulch-head shaped like an up- 
turned basin. All these limestone upper basins must be full of caves, 
he thought. There are two caves there ahead. The scrub pines 
growing in the rock hide them well. This is as good or a better 
place than Pablo’s. 

“How was this shooting of thy family.?” Pilar was saying to 
Joaquin. 

“Nothing, woman,” Joaquin said. “They were of the left as 
many others in Valladolid. When the fascists purified the town 
they shot first the father. He had voted Socialist. Then they shot 
the mother. She had voted the same. It was the first time she had 
ever voted. After that they shot the husband of one of the sisters. 
He was a member of the syndicate of tramway drivers. Clearly he 
could not drive a tram without belonging to the syndicate. But he 
was without politics. I knew him well. He was even a little bit shame- 
less. I do not think he was even a good comrade. Then the husband 
of the other girl, the other sister, who was also in the trams, had 
gone to the hills as I had. They thought she knew where he was. 
But she did not. So they shot her because she would not tell them 
where he was.” 

“What barbarians,” said Pilar. “Where is El Sordo.? I do not 
see him.” 

“He is here. He is probably inside,” answered Joaquin and 
stopping now, and resting the rifle butt on the ground, said 
“Pilar, listen to me. And thou, Maria. Forgive me if I have 
molested you speaking of things of the family. I know that all 
have the same troubles and it is more valuable not to speak of 
them.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


139 

“That you should speak,” Pilar said. “For what are we born 
if not to aid one another.? And to listen and say nothing is a cold 
enough aid.” 

“But it can molest the Maria. She has too many things of her 
own.” 

“Que va,” Maria said. “Mine are such a big bucket that yours 
falling in will never fill it. I am sorry, Joaquin, and I hope thy sister 
is well.” 

“So far she’s all right,” Joaquin said. “They have her in prison 
and it seems they do not mistreat her much.” 

“Are there others in the family.?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“No,” the boy said. “Me. Nothing more. Except the brother- 
in-law who went to the hills and I think he is dead.” 

“Maybe he is all right,” Maria said. “Maybe he is with a band 
in other mountains.” 

“For me he is dead,” Joaquin said. “He was never too good at 
getting about and he was conductor of a tram and that is not the 
best preparation for the hills. I doubt if he could last a year. He 
was somewhat weak in the chest too.” 

“But he may be all right,” Maria put her arm on his shoulder. 

“Certainly, girl. Why not.?” said Joaquin. 

As the boy stood there, Maria reached up, put her arms around 
his neck and kissed him. Joaquin turned his head away because 
he was crying. 

“That is as a brother,” Maria said to him. “I kiss thee as a 
brother.” 

The boy shook his head, crying without making any noise. 

“I am thy sister,” Maria said. “And I love thee and thou hast 
a family. We are all thy family.” 

“Including the Ingles,” boomed Pilar. “Isn’t it true, Ingles?” 

“Yes,” Robert Jordan said to the boy, “We are all thy family, 
Joaquin.” 

“He’s your brother,” Pilar said. “Hey InglSs?” 

Robert Jordan put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “We are 
all brothers,” he said. The boy shook his head. 

“I am ashamed to have spoken,” he said. “To speak of such 
things makes it more difficult for all. I am ashamed of molesting 
you.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


140 

“I obscenity in the milk of thy shame,” Pilar said in her deep 
lovely voice. “And if the Maria kisses thee again I will com- 
mence kissing thee myself. It’s years since I’ve kissed a bullfighter, 
even an unsuccessful one like thee, I would like to kiss an 
unsuccessful bullfighter turned Communist. Hold him, Ingles, till 
I get a good kiss at him.” 

“Deja,” the boy said and turned away sharply. “Leave me alone. 
I am all right and I am ashamed.” 

He stood there, getting his face under control. Maria put her 
hand in Robert Jordan’s. Pilar stood with her hands on her 
hips looking at the boy mockingly now. 

“When I kiss thee,” she said to him, “it will not be as any 
sister. This trick of kissing as a sister.” 

“It is not necessary to joke,” the boy said. “I told you I am all 
right, I am sorry that I spoke.” 

“Well then let us go and see the old man,” Pilar said. “I tire 
myself with such emotion.” 

The boy looked at her. From his eyes you could see he was 
suddenly very hurt. 

“Not thy emotion,” Pilar said to him. “Mine. What a tender 
thing thou art for a bullfighter.” 

“I was a failure,” Joaquin said. “You don’t have to keep insist- 
ing on it.” 

“But you are growing the pigtail another time.” 

“Yes, and why not-f* Fighting stock serves best for that purpose 
economically. It gives employment to many and the State will con- 
trol it. And perhaps now I would not be afraid.” 

“Perhaps not,” Pilar said. “Perhaps not.” 

“Why do you speak in such a brutal manner, Pilar?” Maria said 
to her. “I love thee very much but thou art acting very barbarous.” 

“It is possible that I am barbarous,” Pilar said. “Listen, Ingles. 
Do you know what you are going to say to El Sordo?” 

“Yes.” 

“Because he is a man of few words unlike me and thee and 
this sentimental menagerie.” 

“Why do you talk thus?” Maria asked again, angrily. 

“I don’t know,” said Pilar as she strode along. “Why do you 
think?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


I4I 

“I do not know.” 

“At times many things tire me,” Pilar said angrily. “You under- 
stand.? And one of them is to have forty-eight years. You hear me.? 
Forty-eight years and an ugly face. And another is to see panic 
in the face of a failed bullfighter of Communist tendencies when 
1 say, as a joke, I might kiss him.” 

“It’s not true, Pilar,” the boy said. “You did not see that.” 

"Que va, it’s not true. And I obscenity in the milk of all of you. 
Ah, there he is. Hola, Santiago! Que tal?” 

The man to whom Pilar spoke was short and heavy, brown-faced, 
with broad cheekbones; gray haired, with wide-set yellow-brown 
tyes, a thin-bridged, hooked nose like an Indian’s, a long upper 
hp and a wide, thin mouth. He was clean shaven and he walked 
toward them from the mouth of the cave, moving with the bow- 
legged walk that went with his cattle herdsman’s breeches and 
boots. The day was warm but he had on a sheep’s wool-lined short 
leather jacket buttoned up to the neck. He put out a big brown 
hand to Pilar. “Hola, woman,” he said. “Hola,” he said to Robert 
Jordan and shook his hand and looked him keenly in the face. Robert 
Jordan saw his eyes were yellow as a cat’s and flat as reptile’s eyes 
are. “Guapa,” he said to Maria and patted her shoulder. 

“Eaten.?” he asked Pilar. She shook her head. 

“Eat,’' he said and looked at Robert Jordan. “Drink.?” he asked, 
making a motion with his hand decanting his thumb downward. 

‘Yes, thanks.” 

“Good,” El Sordo said. “Whiskey.?” 

“You have whiskey.?” 

LI Sordo nodded. “Ingles?” he asked. “Not Ruso?” 

“Americano” 

‘ Few Americans here,” he said. 

“Now more.” 

“Less bad. North or South.?” 

“North.” 

“Same as Ingles. When blow bridge?” 

“You know about the bridge?” 

El Sordo nodded. 

'Day after tomorrow morning.” 

Good,” said El Sordo. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


142 

“Pablo?” he asked Pilar. 

She shook her head. El Sordo grinned. 

“Go away,” he said to Maria and grinned again. “Come back,” 
he looked at a large watch he pulled out on a leather thong from 
inside his coat. “Half an hour.” 

He motioned to them to sit down on a flattened log that served 
as a bench and looking at Joaquin, jerked his thumb down the 
trail in the direction they had come from. 

“I’ll walk down with Joaquin and come back,” Maria said. 

El Sordo went into the cave and came out with a pinch bottle 
of Scotch whiskey and three glasses. The bottle was under one arm, 
the three glasses were in the hand of that arm, a finger in each 
glass, and his other hand was around the neck of an earthenware 
jar of water. He put the glasses and the botde down on the log 
and set the jug on the ground. 

“No ice,” he said to Robert Jordan and handed him the bottle. 

“I don’t want any,” Pilar said and covered her glass with her 
hand. 

“Ice last night on ground,” El Sordo said and grinned. “All melt. 
Ice up there,” El Sordo said and pointed to the snow that showed 
on the bare crest of the mountains. “Too far.” 

Robert Jordan started to pour into El Sordo’s glass but the deaf 
man shook his head and made a motion for the other to pour for 
himself. 

Robert Jordan poured a big drink of Scotch into the glass and 
El Sordo watched him eagerly and when he had finished, handed 
him the water jug and Robert Jordan filled the glass with the cold 
water that ran in a stream from the earthenware spout as he tipped 
up the jug. 

El Sordo poured himself half a glassful of whiskey and filled 
the glass with water. 

“Wine?” he asked Pilar. 

“No. Water.” 

“Take it,” he said. “No good,” he said to Robert Jordan and 
grinned. “Knew many English. Always much whiskey.” 

“Where?” 

“Ranch,” El Sordo said. “Friends of boss.” 

“Where do you get the whiskey?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


143 


“What?” he could not hear. 

“You have to shout,” Pilar said. “Into the other ear.” 

El Sordo pointed to his better ear and grinned. 

“Where do you get the whiskey?” Robert Jordan shouted. 

“Make it,” El Sordo said and watched Robert Jordan’s hand 
check on its way to his mouth with the glass. 

“No,” El Sordo said and patted his shoulder. “Joke. Comes from 
La Gran j a. Heard last night comes English dynamiter. Good. Very 
happy. Get whiskey. For you. You like?” 

“Very much,” said Robert Jordan. “It’s very good whiskey.” 

“Am contented,” Sordo grinned. “Was bringing tonight with in- 
formation.” 

“What information?” 

“Much troop movement.” 

“Where?” 

“Segovia. Planes you saw.” 

“Yes.” 

“Bad, eh?” 

“Bad.” 

“Troop movement?” 

“Much between Villacastm and Segovia. On Valladolid road. 
Much between Villacastin and San Rafael. Much. Much.” 

“What do you think?” 

“We prepare something?” 

“Possibly.” 

“They know. Prepare too.” 

“It is possible.” 

“Why not blow bridge tonight?” 

“Orders.” 

“Whose orders?” 

“General Staff.” 

“So.” 

“Is the time of the blowing important?” Pilar asked. 

“Of all importance.” 

“But if they are moving up troops?” 

“I will send Anselmo with a report of all movement and con- 
centrations. He is checking the road.” 

“You have some one at road?” Sordo asked. 


144 for whom the bell tolls 

Robert Jordan did not know how much he had heard. You never 
know with a deaf man. 

"Yes,” he said. 

‘‘Me, too. Why not blow bridge now.^” 

“I have my orders.” 

“I don’t like it,” El Sordo said. “This I do not Uke.” 

“Nor I,” said Robert Jordan. 

El Sordo shook his head and took a sip of the whiskey. “You 
want of me?” 

“How many men have you?” 

“Eight.” 

“To cut the telephone, attack the post at the house of the road- 
menders, take it, and fall back on the bridge.” 

“It is easy.” 

“It will all be written out.” 

“Don’t trouble. And Pablo?” 

“Will cut the telephone below, attack the post at the sawmill, 
take it and fall back on the bridge.” 

“And afterwards for the retreat?” Pilar asked. “We are seven 
men, two women and five horses. You are,” she shouted into 
Sordo’s ear. 

“Eight men and four horses. Faltan cabdlos,” he said. “Lacks 
horses.” 

“Seventeen people and nine horses,” Pilar said. “Without account- 
ing for transport.” 

Sordo said nothing. 

“There is no way of getting horses?” Robert Jordan said into 
Sordo’s best ear. 

“In war a year,” Sordo said. “Have four.” He showed four fingers. 
“Now you want eight for tomorrow.” 

“Yes,” said Robert Jordan. “Knowing you are leaving. Having no 
need to be careful as you have been in this neighborhood. Not 
having to be cautious here now. You could not cut out and steal 
eight head of horses?” 

“Maybe,” Sordo said. “Maybe none. Maybe more.” 

“You have an automatic rifle?” Robert Jordan asked. 

Sordo nodded. 

“Where?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


145 


“Up the hill.” 

“What kind.?” 

“Don’t know name. With pans.” 

“How many rounds?” 

“Five pans.” 

“Does any one know how to use it?” 

“Me. A little. Not shoot too much. Not want make noise here. 
Not want use cartridges.” 

“I will look at it afterwards,” Robert Jordan said. “Have you 
hand grenades?” 

“Plenty.” 

“How many rounds per rifle?” 

“Plenty.” 

“How many?” 

“One hundred fifty. More maybe.” 

“What about other people?” 

“For what?” 

“To have sufficient force to take the posts and cover the bridge 
while I am blowing it. We should have double what we have.” 
“Take posts don’t worry. What time day?” 

“Daylight.” 

“Don’t worry.” 

“I could use twenty more men, to be sure,” Robert Jordan said. 
“Good ones do not exist. You want undependables?” 

“No. How many good ones?” 

“Maybe four.” 

“Why so few?” 

“No trust.” 

“For horseholders?” 

“Must trust much to be horseholders.” 

“I’d like ten more good men if I could get them.” 

“Four.” 

“Anselmo told me there were over a hundred here in these hills.” 
“No good.” 

“You said thirty,” Robert Jordan said to Pilar. “Thirty of a cer- 
tain degree of dependability.” 

“What about the people of Elias?” Pilar shouted to Sordo. He 
shook his head. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


146 

“No good.” 

“You can’t get ten?” Robert Jordan asked. Sordo looked at him 
with his flat, yellow eyes and shook his head. 

“Four,” he said and held up four fingers. 

“Yours are good?” Robert Jordan asked, regretting it as he 
said it. 

Sordo nodded. 

“Dentro de la gravedad,” he said in Spanish. “Within the limits 
of the danger.” He grinned. “Will be bad, eh?” 

“Possibly.” 

“Is the same to me,” Sordo said simply and not boasting. “Better 
four good than much bad. In this war always much bad, very 
little good. Every day fewer good. And Pablo?” he looked at 
Pilar. 

“As you know,” Pilar said. “Worse every day.” 

Sordo shrugged his shoulders. 

“Take drink,” Sordo said to Robert Jordan. “I bring mine and 
four more. Makes twelve. Tonight we discuss all. I have sixty sticks 
dynamite. You want?” 

“What per cent?” 

“Don’t know. Common dynamite. I bring.” 

“We’ll blow the small bridge above with that,” Robert Jordan 
said. “That is fine. You’ll come down tonight? Bring that, will 
you? I’ve no orders for that but it should be blown.” 

“I come tonight. Then hunt horses.” 

“What chance for horses?” 

“Maybe. Now eat.” 

Does he talk that way to every one? Robert Jordan thought. Or 
is that his idea of how to make foreigners understand? 

“And where are we going to go when this is done?” Pilar 
shouted into Sordo’s ear. 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

' All that must be arranged,” the woman said. 

“Of course,” said Sordo. “Why not?” 

“It is bad enough,” Pilar said. “It must he planned very well.” 

“Yes, woman,” Sordo said. “What has thee worried?” 

“Everything,” Pilar shouted. 

Sordo grinned at her. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


147 


“You’ve been going about with Pablo,” he said. 

So he does only speak that pidgin Spanish for foreigners, Robert 
Jordan thought. Good. I’m glad to hear him talking straight. 

“Where do you think we should go.?” Pilar asked. 

“Where.?” 

“Yes, where.” 

“There are many places,” Sordo said. “Many places. You know 
Credos.?” 

“There are many people there. All these places will be cleaned 
up as soon as they have time.” 

“Yes. But it is a big country and very wild.” 

“It would be very difficult to get there,” Pilar said. 

“Everything is difficult,” El Sordo said. “We can get to Credos as 
well as to anywhere else. Travelling at night. Here it is very dan- 
gerous now. It is a miracle we have been here this long. Credos is 
safer country than this.” 

“Do you know where I want to go.?” Pilar asked him. 

“Where.? The Paramera.? That’s no good.” 

“No,” Pilar said. “Not the Sierra de Paramera. I want to go 
to the Republic.” 

“That is possible.” 

“Would your people go?” 

“Yes. If I say to.” 

“Of mine, I do not know,” Pilar said. “Pablo would not want 
to although, truly, he might feel safer there. He is too old to 
have to go for a soldier unless they call more classes. The gypsy 
will not wish to go. I do not know about the others.” 

“Because nothing passes here for so long they do not realize 
the danger,” El Sordo said. 

“Since the planes today they will see it more,” Robert Jordan 
said. “But I should think you could operate very well from 
the Credos.” 

“What?” El Sordo said and looked at him with his eyes very 
flat. There was no friendliness in the way he asked the question. 

“You could raid more effectively from there,” Robert Jordan said. 

“So,” El Sordo said. “You know Credos?” 

“Yes. You could operate against the main line of the railway 
from there. You could keep cutting it as we are doing farther 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


148 

south in Estremadura. To operate from there would be better than 
returning to the RepubUc,” Robert Jordan said. “You are more use- 
ful there,” 

They had both gotten sullen as he talked. 

Sordo looked at Pilar and she looked back at him. 

“You know Credos?” Sordo asked. “Truly?” 

“Sure,” said Robert Jordan. 

“Where would you go?” 

“Above Barco de Avila. Better places than here. Raid against 
the main road and the railroad between Bejar and Plasencia.” 

“Very difficult,” Sordo said. 

“We have worked against that same railroad in much more 
dangerous country in Estremadura,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Who is we?” 

“The guerrilleros group of Estremadura.” 

“You are many?” 

“About forty.” 

“Was the one with the bad nerves and the strange name from 
there?” asked Pilar. 

“Yes.” 

“Where is he now?” 

“Dead, as I told you.” 

“You are from there, too?” 

“Yes.” 

“You see what I mean?” Pilar said to him. 

And I have made a mistake, Robert Jordan thought to him- 
self. I have told Spaniards we can do something better than 
they can when the rule is never to speak of your own exploits 
or abilities. When I should have flattered them I have told them 
what I think they should do and now they are furious. Well, 
they will either get over it or they will not. They are certainly 
much more useful in the Credos than here. The proof is that here 
they have done nothing since that train that Kashkin organized. It 
was not much of a show. It cost the fascists one engine and killed a 
few troops but they all talk as though it were the high point of the 
war. Maybe they will shame into going to the Credos, Yes and 
maybe I will get thrown out of here too. Well, it is not a very rosy- 
looking dish anyway that you look into it. 

“Listen Ingles’’ Pilar said to him. “How are your nerves?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


149 


“All right,” said Robert Jordan. “O.K.” 

“Because the last dynamiter they sent to work with us, although 
a formidable technician, was very nervous.” 

“We have nervous ones,” Robert Jordan said. 

“I do not say that he was a coward because he comported him- 
self very well,” Pilar went on. “But he spoke in a very rare and 
windy way.” She raised her voice. “Isn’t it true, Santiago, that 
the last dynamiter, he of the train, was a little rare.?” 

‘"Algo raro,” the deaf man nodded and his eyes went over 
Robert Jordan’s face in a way that reminded him of the round 
opening at the end of the wand of a vacuiun cleaner. “Si, algo raro, 
pero bueno" 

“Murid,” Robert Jordan said into the deaf man’s ear. “He is 
dead.” 

“How was that.?” the deaf man asked, dropping his eyes down 
from Robert Jordan’s eyes to his lips. 

“I shot him,” Robert Jordan said. “He was too badly wounded 
to travel and I shot him.” 

“He was always talking of such a necessity,” Pilar said. “It was 
his obsession.” 

“Yes,” said Robert Jordan. “He was always talking of such a 
necessity and it was his obsession.” 

“Como jue?” the deaf man asked. “Was it a train.?” 

“It was returning from a train,” Robert Jordan said. “The train 
was successful. Returning in the dark we encountered a fascist 
patrol and as we ran he was shot high in the back but without 
hitting any bone except the shoulder blade. He travelled quite 
a long way, but with the wound was unable to travel more. 
He was unwilling to be left behind and I shot him.” 

“Menos mol” said El Sordo. “Less bad.” 

“Are you sure your nerves are all right.?” Pilar said to Robert 
Jordan. 

“Yes,” he told her. “I am sure that my nerves are all right 
and I think that when we terminate this of the bridge you would 
do well to go to the Credos.” 

As he said that, the woman started to curse in a flood of obscene 
invective that rolled over and around him like the hot white 
water splashing down from the sudden eruption of a geyser. 

The deaf man shook his head at Robert Jordan and grinned in 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


150 

delight. He cx)ntinued to shake his head happily as Pilar went 
on vilifying and Robert Jordan knew that it was all right again 
now. Finally she stopped cursing, reached for the water jug, 
tipped it up and took a drink and said, calmly, “Then just shut 
up about what we are to do afterwards, will you, Ingles? You 
go back to the Republic and you take your piece with you and 
leave us others alone here to decide what part- of these hills we’ll 
die in.” 

“Live in,” El Sordo said. “Calm thyself. Pilar.” 

“Live in and die in,” Pilar said. “I can see the end of it well 
enough. I like thee, Ingles, but keep thy mouth off of what we 
must do when thy business is finished.” 

“It is thy business,” Robert Jordan said. “I do not put my hand 
in it.” 

“But you did,” Pilar said. “Take thy little cropped-headed 
whore and go back to the Republic but do not shut the door 
on others who are not foreigners and who loved the Republic 
when thou wert wiping thy mother’s milk off thy chin.” 

Maria had come up the trail while they were talking and she 
heard this last sentence which Pilar, raising her voice again, 
shouted at Robert Jordan. Maria shook her head at Robert Jordan 
violently and shook her finger warningly. Pilar saw Robert Jordan 
looking at the girl and saw him smile and she turned and said, 
“Yes. I said whore and I mean it. And I suppose that you’ll go 
to Valencia together and we can eat goat crut in Credos.” 

“I’m a whore if thee wishes. Pilar,” Maria said. “I suppose I 
am in all case if you say so. But calm thyself. What passes with 
thee?” 

“Nothing,” Pilar said and sat down on the bench, her voice 
calm now and all the metallic rage gone out of it. “I do not 
call thee that. But I have such a desire to go to the RepubUc.” 

“We can all go,” Maria said. 

“Why not?” Robert Jordan said. “Since thou seemest not to 
love the Credos.” 

Sordo grinned at him. 

“We’ll see,” Pilar said, her rage gone now. “Cive me a glass of 
that rare drink. I have worn my throat out with anger. We’ll 
see. We’ll see what happens.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


I5I 

“You see, comrade,” El Sordo explained. “It is the morning that 
is difficult.” He was not talking the pidgin Spanish now and he 
was looking into Robert Jordan’s eyes calmly and explainingly; 
not searchingly nor suspiciously, nor with the flat superiority of 
the old campaigner that had been in them before. “I understand 
your needs and I know the posts must be exterminated and the 
bridge covered while you do your work. This I understand per- 
fectly. This is easy to do before daylight or at daylight.” 

“Yes,” Robert Jordan said. “Run along a minute, will you.^” he 
said to Maria without looking at her. 

The girl walked away out of hearing and sat down, her hands 
clasped over her ankles. 

“You see,” Sordo said. “In that there is no problem. But to 
leave afterward and get out of this country in daylight presents 
a grave problem.” 

“Clearly,” said Robert Jordan. “I have thought of it. It is 
daylight for me also.” 

“But you are one,” El Sordo said. “We are various.” 

“There is the possibility of returning to the camps and leaving 
from there at dark,” Pilar said, putting the glass to her Ups and 
then lowering it. 

“That is very dangerous, too,” El Sordo explained. “That is 
perhaps even more dangerous.” 

“I can see how it would be,” Robert Jordan said. 

“To do the bridge in the night would be easy,” El Sordo said. 
“Since you make the condition that it must be done at daylight, 
it brings grave consequences.” 

“I know it.” 

“You could not do it at night?” 

“I would be shot for it.” 

“It is very possible we will all be shot for it if you do it 
in the daytime.” 

“For me myself that is less important once the bridge is blown,” 
Robert Jordan said. “But I see your viewpoint. You cannot work 
out a retreat for daylight?” 

“Certainly,” El Sordo said. “We will work out such a retreat. 
But I explain to you why one is preoccupied and why one is 
irritated. You speak of going to Credos as though it were a military 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


152 

manoeuvre to be accomplished. To arrive at Credos would be a 
miracle.” 

Robert Jordan said nothing. 

“Listen to me,” the deaf man said. “I am speaking much. But 
it is so we may understand one another. We exist here by a 
miracle. By a miracle of laziness and stupidity of the fascists 
which they will remedy in time. Of course we are very careful 
and we make no disturbance in these hills.” 

“I know.” 

“But now, with this, we must go. We must think much about 
the manner of our going.” 

“Clearly.” 

“Then,” said El Sordo. “Let us eat now. I have talked much.” 

“Never have I heard thee talk so much,” Pilar said. “Is it this.?” 
she held up the glass. 

“No,” El Sordo shook his head. “It isn’t whiskey. It is that 
never have I had so much to talk of.” 

“I appreciate your aid and your loyalty,” Robert Jordan said. 
“I appreciate the difficulty caused by the timing of the blowing 
of the bridge.” 

“Don’t talk of that,” El Sordo said. “We are here to do what 
we can do. But this is complicated.” 

“And on paper very simple,” Robert Jordan grinned. “On paper 
the bridge is blown at the moment the attack starts in order 
that nothing shall come up the road. It is very simple.” 

“That they should let us do something on paper,” El Sordo said. 
“That we should conceive and execute something on paper.” 

“ ‘Paper bleeds little,’ ” Robert Jordan quoted the proverb. 

“But it is very useful,” Pilar said. “Es muy util." What I would 
like to do is use thy orders for that purpose.” 

“Me too,” said Robert Jordan. “But you could never win a war 
hke that.” 

“No,” the big woman said. “I suppose not. But do you know what 
I would like.?” 

“To go to the Republic,” El Sordo said. He had put his good 
ear close to her as she spoke. “Ya iras, mujer. Let us win this 
and it will all be Republic.” 

“All right,” Pilar said. “And now, for God’s sake let us eat” 


CHAPTER TWELVE 


They left El Sordo’s after eating and started down the trail. El 
Sordo had walked with them as far as the lower post. 

“Salud" he said. “Until tonight.” 

“Salud, camarada,” Robert Jordan had said to him and the three 
of them had gone on down the trail, the deaf man standing look- 
ing after them. Maria had turned and waved her hand at him and 
El Sordo waved disparagingly with the abrupt, Spanish upward 
flick of the forearm as though something were being tossed away 
which seems the negation of all salutation which has not to do with 
business. Through the meal he had never unbuttoned his sheepskin 
coat and he had been carefully polite, careful to turn his head to 
hear and had returned to speaking his broken Spanish, asking 
Robert Jordan about conditions in the Republic politely; but it was 
obvious he wanted to be rid of them. 

As they had left him. Pilar had said to him, “Well, Santiago?” 

“Well, nothing, woman,” the deaf man said. “It is all right. But 
I am thinking.” 

“Me, too,” Pilar had said and now as they walked down the 
trail, the walking easy and pleasant down the steep trail through 
the pines that they had toiled up. Pilar said nothing. Neither Robert 
Jordan nor Maria spoke and the three of them travelled along fast 
until the trail rose steeply out of the wooded valley to come up 
through the timber, leave it, and come out into the high meadow. 

It was hot in the late May afternoon and half way up this last 
steep grade the woman stopped. Robert Jordan, stopping and look- 
ing back, saw the sweat beading on her forehead. He thought her 
brown face looked pallid and the skin sallow and that there were 
dark areas under her eyes. 

“Let us rest a minute,” he said. “We go too fast.” 

“No,” she said. “Let us go on.” 

“Rest, Pilar,” Maria said. “You look badly.” 

“Shut up,” the woman said. “Nobody asked for thy advice.” 

153 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


154 

She started on up the trail but at the top she was breathing 
heavily and her face was wet with perspiration and there was no 
doubt about her pallor now. 

“Sit down, Pilar,” Maria said. “Please, please sit down.” 

“All right,” said Pilar and the three of them sat down under a 
pine tree and looked across the mountain meadow to where the 
tops of the peaks seemed to jut out from the roll of the high country 
with snow shining bright on them now in the early afternoon sun. 

“What rotten stuff is the snow and how beautiful it looks,” Pilar 
said. “What an illusion is the snow.” She turned to Maria. “I am 
sorry I was rude to thee, guapa. I don’t know what has held me 
today. I have an evil temper.” 

“I never mind what you say when you are angry,” Maria told 
her. “And you are angry often.” 

“Nay, it is worse than anger,” Pilar said, looking across at the 
peaks. 

“Thou art not well,” Maria said. 

“Neither is it that,” the woman said. “Come here, guapa, and put 
thy head in my lap.” 

Maria moved close to her, put her arms out and folded them as 
one does who goes to sleep without a pillow and lay with her 
head on her arms. She turned her face up at Pilar and smiled at her 
but the big woman looked on across the meadow at the mountains. 
She stroked the girl’s head without looking down at her and ran a 
blunt finger across the girl’s forehead and then around the line of 
her ear and down the line where the hair grew on her neck. 

“You can have her in a little while, Ingles,” she said. Robert 
Jordan was sitting behind her. 

“Do not talk like that,” Maria said. 

“Yes, he can have thee,” Pilar said and looked at neither of them. 
“I have never wanted thee. But I am jealous.” 

“Pilar,” Maria said. “Do not talk thus.” 

“He can have thee,” Pilar said and ran her finger around the 
lobe of the girl’s ear. “But I am very jealous.” 

“But Pilar,” Maria said. “It was thee explained to me there was 
nothing like that between us.” 

“There is always something like that,” the woman said. “There 
is always something fike something that there should not be. But 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS I55 

with me there is not. Truly there is not. I want thy happiness and 
nothing more.” 

Maria said nothing but lay there, trying to make her head rest 
lightly. 

“Listen, guapa’’ said Pilar and ran her finger now absently but 
tracingly over the contours o£ her cheeks. “Listen, guapa, I love 
thee and he can have thee, I am no tortillera but a woman made 
for men. That is true. But now it gives me pleasure to say thus, in 
the daytime, that I care for thee.” 

“I love thee, too.” 

“Que va. Do not talk nonsense. Thou dost not know even of 
what I speak.” 

“I know.” 

“Que va, that you know. You are for the Ingles. That is seen 
and as it should be. That I would have. Anything else I would not 
have. I do not make perversions. I only tell you something true. 
Few people will ever talk to thee truly and no women. I am jealous 
and say it and it is there. And I say it.” 

“Do not say it,” Maria said. “Do not say it. Pilar.” 

“Por que, do not say it,” the woman said, still not looking at either 
of them. “I will say it until it no longer pleases me to say it. And,” 
she looked down at the girl now, “that time has come already. I 
do not say it more, you understand.'^” 

“Pilar,” Maria said. “Do not talk thus.” 

“Thou art a very pleasant little rabbit,” Pilar said. “And lift thy 
head now because this silliness is over.” 

“It was not silly,” said Maria. “And my head is well where it is.” 

“Nay. Lift it,” Pilar told her and put her big hands under the 
girl’s head and raised it. “And thou, Ingles?” she said, still holding 
the girl’s head as she looked across at the moimtains. “What cat 
has eaten thy tongue.?” 

“No cat,” Robert Jordan said. 

“What animal then.?” She laid the girl’s head down on the 
ground. 

“No animal,” Robert Jordan told her. 

“You swallowed it yourself, eh?” 

“I guess so,” Robert Jordan said. 

“And did you like the taste.?” Pilar turned now and grinned at 
him. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


156 

“Not much.” 

“I thought not,” Pilar said. “I thought not. But I give you back 
your rabbit. Nor ever did I try to take your rabbit.-That’s a good 
name for her. I heard you call her that this morning.” 

Robert Jordan felt his face redden. 

“You are a very hard woman,” he told her. 

“No,” Pilar said. “But so simple I am very complicated Are you 
very complicated, Ingles?” 

“No. Nor not so simple.” 

“You please me, Ingles,” Pilar said. Then she smiled and leaned 
forward and smiled and shook her head. “Now if I could take 
the rabbit from thee and take thee from the rabbit.” 

“You could not.” 

“I know it,” Pilar said and smiled again. “Nor would I wish to. 
But when I was young I could have.” 

“I believe it.” 

“You believe it?” 

“Surely,” Robert Jordan said. “But such talk is nonsense.” 

“It is not like thee,” Maria said. 

“I am not much like myself today,” Pilar said. “Very little Uke 
myself. Thy bridge has given me a headache, Ingles.” 

“We can call it the Headache Bridge,” Robert Jordan said. “But 
I will drop it in that gorge like a broken bird cage.” 

“Good,” said Pilar. “Keep on talking like that.” 

“I’ll drop it as you break a banana from which you have removed 
the skin.” 

“I could eat a banana now,” said Pilar. “Go on, Ingles. Keep on 
talking largely.” 

“There is no need,” Robert Jordan said. “Let us get to camp.” 

“Thy duty,” Pilar said. “It will come quickly enough. I said that I 
would leave the two of you.” 

“No. I have much to do.” 

“That is much too and does not take long.” 

“Shut thy mouth, Pilar,” Maria said. “You speak grossly.” 

“I am gross,” Pilar said. “But I am also very delicate. Soy muy 
delicada. I will leave the two of you. And the talk of jealousness 
is nonsense. I was angry at Joaquin because I saw from his look 
how ugly I am. I am only jealous that you are nineteen. It is not 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


157 

a jealousy which lasts. You will not be nineteen always. Now I go.” 

She stood up and with a hand on one hip looked at Robert Jor- 
dan, who was also standing. Maria sat on the ground under the 
tree, her head dropped forward. 

“Let us all go to camp together,” Robert Jordan said. “It is bet- 
ter and there is much to do.” 

Pilar nodded with her head toward Maria, who sat there, her 
head turned away from them, saying nothing. 

Pilar smiled and shrugged her shoulders almost imperceptibly 
and said, “You know the way.?” 

“I know it,” Maria said, not raising her head. 

*‘Pues me voy,” Pilar said. “Then I am going. We’ll have some- 
thing hearty for you to eat, Ingles.” 

She started to walk off into the heather of the meadow toward 
the stream that led down through it toward the camp. 

“Wait,” Robert Jordan called to her. “It is better that we should 
all go together.” 

Maria sat there and said nothing. 

Pilar did not turn. 

‘‘Que m, go together,” she said. “I will see thee at the camp.” 

Robert Jordan stood there. 

“Is she all right?” he asked Maria. “She looked ill before.” 

“Let her go,” Maria said, her head still down. 

“I think I should go with her.” 

“Let her go,” said Maria. “Let her go!” 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


They were walking through the heather o£ the mountain meadow 
and Robert Jordan felt the brushing of the heather against his legs, 
felt the weight of his pistol in its holster against his thigh, felt 
the sun on his head, felt the breeze from the snow of the mountain 
peaks cool on his back and, in his hand, he felt the girl’s hand firm 
and strong, the fingers locked in his. From it, from the palm of her 
hand against the palm of his, from their fingers locked together, 
and from her wrist across his wrist something came from her hand, 
her fingers and her wrist to his that was as fresh as the first light 
air that moving toward you over the sea barely wrinkles the glassy 
surface of a calm, as light as a feather moved across one’s lip, or a 
leaf falling when there is no breeze; so light that it could be felt 
with the touch of their fingers alone, but that was so strengthened, 
so intensified, and made so urgent, so aching and so strong by the 
hard pressure of their fingers and the close pressed palm and wrist, 
that it was as though a current moved up his arm and filled his 
whole body with an aching hollowness of wanting. With the sun 
shining on her hair, tawny as wheat, and on her gold-brown smooth- 
lovely face and on the curve of her throat he bent her head back 
and held her to him and kissed her. He felt her trembling as he 
kissed her and he held the length of her body tight to him and felt 
her breasts against his chest through the two khaki shirts, he felt 
them small and firm and he reached and undid the buttons on her 
shirt and bent and kissed her and she stood shivering, holding her 
head back, his arm behind her. Then she dropped her chin to his 
head and then he felt her hands holding his head and rocking it 
against her. He straightened and with his two arms around her 
held her so tightly that she was lifted off the ground, tight against 
him, and he felt her trembfing and then her lips were on his throat, 
and then he put her down and said, “Maria, oh, my Maria.” 

Then he said, “Where should we go?” 

158 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


159 

She did not say anything but slipped her hand inside of his shirt 
and he felt her undoing the shirt buttons and she said, “You, too. 
I want to kiss, too.” 

“No, little rabbit.” 

“Yes. Yes. Everything as you.” 

“Nay. That is an impossibility.” 

“Well, then. Oh, then. Oh, then. Oh.” 

Then there was the smell of heather crushed and the roughness 
of the bent stalks under her head and the sun bright on her closed 
eyes and all his life he would remember the curve of her throat 
with her head pushed back into the heather roots and her lips that 
moved smally and by themselves and the fluttering of the lashes 
on the eyes tight closed against the sun and against everything, and 
for her everything was red, orange, gold-red from the sun on the 
closed eyes, and it all was that color, all of it, the filling, the possess- 
ing, the having, all of that color, all in a blindness of that color. For 
him it was a dark passage which led to nowhere, then to nowhere, 
then again to nowhere, once again to nowhere, always and forever 
to nowhere, heavy on "the elbows in the earth to nowhere, dark,’ 
never any end to nowhere, hung on all time always to unknowing 
nowhere, this time and again for always to nowhere, now not to 
be borne once again always and to nowhere, now beyond all bearing 
up, up, up and into nowhere, suddenly, scaldingly, holdingly all 
nowhere gone and time absolutely still and they were both there, 
time having stopped and he felt the earth move out and away 
from under them. 

Then he was lying on his side, his head deep in the heather, 
smelling it and the smell of the roots and the earth and the sun 
came through it and it was scratchy on his bare shoulders and along 
his flanks and the girl was lying opposite him with her eyes still 
shut and then she opened them and smiled at him and he said 
very tiredly and from a great but friendly distance, “Hello, rabbit.” 
And she smiled and from no distance said, “Hello, my Ingles.” 

“I’m not an Ingles,” he said very lazily. 

“Oh yes, you are,” she said. “You’re my Ingles,” and reached and 
took hold of both his ears and kissed him on the forehead. 

“There,” she said. “How is that? Do I kiss thee better?” 

Then they were walking along the stream together and he said. 


i6o 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“Maria, I love thee and thou art so lovely and so wonderful and so 
beautiful and it does such things to me to be with thee that I feel 
as though I wanted to die when I am loving thee.” 

“Oh,” she said. “I die each time. Do you not die?” 

“No. Almost. But did thee feel the earth move?” 

“Yes. As I died. Put thy arm around me, please.” 

“No. I have thy hand. Thy hand is enough.” 

He looked at her and across the meadow where a hawk was 
hunting and the big afternoon clouds were coming now over the 
mountains. 

“And it is not thus for thee with others?” Maria asked him, 
they now walking hand in hand. 

“No. Truly.” 

“Thou hast loved many others.” 

“Some. But not as thee.” 

“And it was not thus? Truly?” 

“It was a pleasure but it was not thus.” 

“And then the earth moved. The earth never moved before?” 

“Nay. Truly never.” 

“Ay,” she said. “And this we have for one day.” 

He said nothing. 

“But we have had it now at least,” Maria said. “And do you 
like me too? Do I please thee? I will look better later.” 

“Thou art very beautiful now,” 

“Nay,” she said. “But stroke thy hand across my head.” 

He did that feeling her cropped hair soft and flattening and 
then rising between his fingers and he put both hands on her head 
and turned her face up to his and kissed her, 

“I like to kiss very much,” she said. “But I do not do it well.” 

“Thou hast no need to kiss.” 

“Yes, I have. If I am to be thy woman I should please thee in all 
ways.” 

“You please me enough. I would not be more pleased. There is 
no thing I could do if I were more pleased.” 

“But you will see,” she said very happily. “My hair amuses thee 
now because it is odd. But every day it is growing. It will be long 
and then I will not look ugly and perhaps you will love me very 
much.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


l6l 


“Thou hast a lovely body,” he said. “The loveliest in the world.” 

“It is only young and thin.” 

“No. In a fine body there is magic. I do not know what makes 
it in one and not in another. But thou hast it.” 

“For thee,” she said. 

“Nay.” 

“Yes. For thee and for thee always and only for thee. But it is 
little to bring thee. I would learn to take good care of thee. But tell 
me truly. Did the earth never move for thee before?” 

“Never,” he said truly. 

“Now am I happy,” she said. “Now am I truly happy.” 

“You are thinking of something else now?” she asked him. 

“Yes. My work.” 

“I wish we had horses to ride,” Maria said. “In my happiness I 
would like to be on a good horse and ride fast with thee riding fast 
beside me and we would ride faster and faster, galloping, and never 
pass my happiness.” 

“We could take thy happiness in a plane,” he said absently. 

“And go over and over in the sky like the little pursuit planes 
shining in the sun,” she said. “Rolling it in loops and in dives. 
Que buenol” she laughed. “My happiness would not even notice it.” 

“Thy happiness has a good stomach,” he said half hearing what 
she said. ' 

Because now he was not there. He was walking beside her but his 
mind was thinking of the problem of the bridge now and it was all 
clear and hard and sharp as when a camera lens is brought into focus. 
He saw the two posts and Anselmo and the gypsy watching. He 
saw the road empty and he saw movement on it. He saw where he 
would place the two automatic rifles to get the most level field of 
fire, and who will serve them, he thought, me at the end, but who at 
the start? He placed the charges, wedged and lashed them, sunk 
his caps and crimped them, ran his wires, hooked them up and got 
back to where he had placed the old box of the exploder and then 
he started to think of all the things that could have happened and 
that might go wrong. Stop it, he told himself. You have made love 
to this girl and now your head is clear, properly clear, and you 
start to worry. It is one thing to think you must do and it is another 
thing to worry. Don’t worry. You mustn’t worry. You know the 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 



things that you may have to do and you know what may happen. 
Certainly it may happen. 

You went into it knowing what you were fighting for. You were 
fighting against exactly what you were doing and being forced into 
doing to have any , chance of winning. So now he was compelled 
to use these people whom he liked as you should use troops toward 
whom you have no feeling at all if you were to be successful. Pablo 
was evidently the smartest. He knew how bad it was instantly. The 
woman was all for it, and still was; but the realization of what it 
really consisted in had overcome her steadily and it had done 
pl^ty to her already. Sordo recognized it instantly and would do it 
but he did not like it any more than he, Robert Jordan, Hked it. 

So you say that it is not that which will happen to yourself but 
that which may happen to the woman and the girl and to the others 
that you think of. All right. What would have happened to them 
if you had not come? What happened to them and what passed 
with them before you were ever here? You must not think in that 
way. You have no responsibility for them except in action. The 
orders do not come from you. They come from Golz. And who 
is Golz? A good general. The best you’ve ever served under. But 
should a man carry out impossible orders knowing what they lead 
to? Even though they come from Golz, who is the party as well 
as the army? Yes. He should carry them out because it is only in 
the performing of them that they can prove to be impossible. How 
do you know they are impossible until you have tried them? If 
every one said orders were impossible to carry out when they were 
received where would you be? Where would we aU be if you just 
said, “Impossible,” when orders came? 

He had seen enough of commanders to whom all orders were 
impossible. That swine Gomez in Estremadura. He had seen 
enough attacks when the flanks did not advance because it was im- 
possible. No, he would carry out the orders and it was bad luck 
that you liked the people you must do it with. 

In all the work that they, the partizans did, they brought added 
danger and bad luck to the people that sheltered them and worked 
with them. For what? So that, eventually, there should be no more 
danger and so that the country should be a good place to live in. 
That was true no matter how trite it sounded. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


163 

I£ the Republic lost it would be impossible for those who belie v'ed 
in it to live in Spain. But would it? Yes, he knew that it would be, 
from the things that happened in the parts the fascists had already 
taken. 

Pablo was a swine but the others were fine people and was it not 
a betrayal of them all to get them to do this? Perhaps it was. But 
if they did not do it two squadrons of cavalry would come and hunt 
them out of these hills in a week. 

No. There was nothing to be gained by leaving them alone. Ex- 
cept that all people should be left alone and you should inter- 
fere with no one. So he believed that, did he? Yes, he believed that. 
And what about a planned society and the rest of it? That was for 
the others to do. He had something else to do after this war. He 
fought now in this war because it had started in a country that he 
loved and he believed in the Republic and that if it were destroyed 
life would be unbearable for all those people who believed in it. 
He was under Communist discipline for the duration of the war. 
Here in Spain the Communists offered the best discipline and the 
soundest and sanest for the prosecution of the war. He accepted 
their discipline for the duration of the war because, in the conduct 
of the war, they were the only party whose program and whose 
discipline he could respect. 

What were his politics then? He had none now, he told himself. 
But do not tell any one else that, he thought. Don’t ever admit that. 
And what are you going to do afterwards? I am going back and 
earn my living teaching Spanish as before, and I am going to write 
a true book. I’ll bet, he said. I’ll bet that will be easy. 

He would have to talk with Pablo about politics. It would cer- 
tainly be interesting to see what his political development had been. 
The classical move from left to right, probably; like old Lerroux. 
Pablo was quite a lot like Lerroux. Prieto was as bad. Pablo and 
Prieto had about an equal faith in the ultimate victory. They all 
had the politics of horse thieves. He believed in the Republic as a 
form of government but the Republic would have to get rid of all 
of that bunch of horse thieves that brought it to the pass it was in 
when the rebellion started. Was there ever a people whose leaders 
were as truly their enemies as this one? 

Enemies of the people. That was a phrase he might omit. That 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


164 

was a catch phrase he would skip. That was one thing that sleeping 
with Maria had done. He had gotten to be as bigoted and hide- 
bound about his politics as a hard-shelled Baptist and phrases lik e 
enemies of the people came into his mind without his much criti- 
cizing them in any way. Any sort of cliches both revolutionary and 
patriotic. His mind employed them without criticism. Of course 
^ I they were true but it was too easy to be nimble about using them. 
\ But since last night and this afternoon his mind was much clearer 
and cleaner on that business. Bigotry is an odd thing. To be bigoted 
you have to be absolutely sure that you are right and nothing makes 
that surety and righteousness like continence. Continence is the foe 
of heresy. 

How would that premise stand up if he examined it.? That was 
probably why the Communists were always cracking dowm on 
Bohemianism. When you were drunk or when you committed 
either fornication or adultery you recognized your own personal 
fallibility of that so mutable substitute for the apostles’ creed, the 
party line. Down with Bohemianism, the sin of Mayakovsky. 

^t Mayakovsky was a saint again. That was because he was 
SMely dead. You’ll be safely dead yourself, he told himself. Now 
Stop thinking that sort of thing. Think about Maria. 

/ Maria was very hard on his bigotry. So far she had not affected 
/ his resolution but he would much prefer not to die. He would 
abandon a hero’s or a martyr’s end gladly. He did not want to_ 
make a Thermopyiz, nor be Horatius at any bridge, nor be the 
Dutch boy with his finger in that a)'Ke. No. He would like to spend 
some time with Maria. Thai was the simplest expression of it. He 
would like to spend a long, long time with her. 

He did not believe there was ever going to be any such thing as 
a long time any more but if there ever was such a thing he would 
like to spend it with her. We could go into the hotel and register 
as Doctor and Mrs. Livingstone I presume, he thought. 

Why not marry her? Sure, he thought. I will marry her. Then 
we will be Mr. and Mrs. Robert Jordan of Sun Valley, Idaho. Or 
Corpus Christi, Texas, or Butte, Montana. 

Spanish girls make wonderful wives. I've never had one so I 
know. And when I get my job back at the university she can be an 
instructor’s wife and when undergraduates who take Spanish IV 
come in to smoke pipes in the evening and have those so valuable 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 



informal discussions about Quevedo, Lope de Vega, Galdos and the 
other always admirable dead, Maria can tell them about how some 
of the blue-shirted crusaders for the true faith sat on her head while 
others twisted her arms and pulled her skirts up and stuffed them 
in her mouth. 

I wonder how they will like Maria in Missoula, Montana? That 
is if I can get a job back in Missoula. I suppose that 1 am ticEeted 
as a Red there now for good and will be on the general blacklist. 
Though you never know. You never can tell. They’ve no proof of 
what you do, and as a matter of fact they would never believe it if 
you told them, and my passport was valid for Spain before they 
issued the restrictions. 

The time ^nr getting back will not be until the fall of thirty- 
seven. I left in the summer of thirty-six and though the leave 
is for a year you do not need to be back until the fall term opens 
in the following year. There is a lot of time between now and 
the fall term. There is a lot of time between now and day after 
tomorrow if you want to put it that way. No. I think there is 
no need to worry about the university. Just you turn up there 
in the fall and it will be all right. Just try and turn up there. 

But it has been a strange life for a long time now. Damned if 
it hasn’t. Spain was your work and your job, so being in Spain 
was natural and sound. You had worked summers on engineering 
projects and in the forest service building roads and in the park 
and learned to handle powder, so the demolition was a sound and 
normal job too. Always a little hasty, but sound. 

Once you accept the idea of demolition as a problem it is only a 
problem. But there was plenty that was not so good that went with it 
although God knows you took it easily enough. There was the con- 
stant attempt to approximate the conditions of successful assassina- 
tion that accompanied the demolition. Did big words make it more 
defensible? Did they make killing any more palatable? You took to 
it a little too readily if you ask me, he told himself. And what you 
will be like or just exactly what you will be suited for when you 
leave the service of the Republic is, to me, he thought, extremely 
doubtful. But my guess is you will get rid of all that by writing about 
it, he said. Once you write it down it is all gone. It will be a good 
book if you can write it. Much better than the other. 

But in the meantime all the life you have or ever will have is 


i66 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


today, tonight, tomorrow, today, tonight, tomorrow, over and over 
again (I hope), he thought and so you had better take what time 
there is and be very thankful for it. If the bridge goes bad. It does 
not look too good just now. 

But Maria has been good. Has she not? Oh, has she not, he 
thought. Maybe that is what I am to get now from life. Maybe that 
is my life and instead of it being threescore years and ten it is 
forty-eight hours or just threescore hours and ten or twelve rather. 
Twenty-four hours in a day would be threescore and twelve for the 
three full days. 

I suppose it is possible to live as full a life in seventy hours as in 
seventy years; granted that your life has been full up to the time 
that the seventy hours start and that you have reached a certain age. 

What nonsense, he thought. What rot you get to thinking by your- 
self. That is really nonsense. And maybe it isn’t nonsense too. Well, 
we will see. The last time I slept with a girl was in Madrid. No it 
wasn’t. It was in the Escorial and, except that I woke in the night 
and thought it was some one else and was excited until I realized 
who it really was, it was just dragging ashes; except that it was 
pleasant enough. And the time before that was in Madrid and ex- 
cept for some lying and pretending I did to myself as to identity 
while things were going on, it was the same or something less. So 
I am no romantic glorifier of the Spanish Woman nor did I ever 
think of a casual piece as anything much other than a casual piece 
in any country. But when I am with Maria I love her so that I feel, 
literally, as though I would die and I never beheved in that nor 
thought that it could happen. 

So if your life trades its seventy years for seventy hours I have that 
value now and I am lucky enough to know it. And if there is not 
any such thing as a long time, nor the rest of your lives, nor from 
now on, but there is only now, why then now is the thing to praise 
and I am very happy with it. Now, ahora, maintenant, heute. Now, 
it has a funny sound to be a whole world and your life. Esta noche, 
tonight, ce soir, heute abend. Life and wife. Vie and Mari. No it 
didn’t work out. The French turned it into husband. There was 
now and frau; but that did not prove anything either. Take dead, 
njort, muerto, and todt. Todt was the deadest of them all. War, 
guerre, guerra, and \rieg. Krieg was the most like war, or was it? 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


167 

Or was it only that he knew German the least well? Sweetheart, 
cherie, prenda, and schatz. He would trade them all for Maria. 
There was a name. 

Well, they would all be doing it together and it would not be 
long now. It certainly looked worse all the time. It was just some- 
thing that you could not bring off in the morning. In an impossible 
situation you hang on until night to get away. You try to last out 
until night to get back in. You are all right, maybe, if you can stick 
it out until dark and then get in. So what if you start this sticking 
it out at daylight? How about that? And that poor bloody Sordo 
abandoning his pigeon Spanish to explain it to him so carefully. As 
though he had not thought about that whenever he had done any 
particularly bad thinking ever since Golz had first mentioned it. As 
though he hadn’t been living with that like a lump of undigested 
dough in the pit of his stomach ever since the night before the night 
before last. 

What a business. You go along your whole life and they seem 
as though they mean something and they always end up not mean- 
ing anything. There was never any of what this is. You think that 
is one thing that you will never have. And then, on a lousy show 
like this, co-ordinating two chicken-crut guerilla bands to help you 
blow a bridge under impossible conditions, to abort a counter-of- 
fensive that will probably already be started, you run into a girl 
like this Maria. Sure. That is what you would do. You ran into her 
rather late, that was all. 

So a woman like that Pilar practically pushed this girl into your 
sleeping bag and what happens? Yes, what happens? What hap- 
pens? You tell me what happens, please. Yes. That is just what 
happens. That is exactly what happens. 

Don’t lie to yourself about Pilar pushing her into your sleeping 
robe and try to make it nothing or to make it lousy. You were gone 
when you first saw her. When she first opened her mouth and 
spoke to you it was there already and you know it. Since you have 
it and you never thought you would have it, there is no sense 
throwing dirt at it, when you know what it is and you know it 
came the first time you looked at her as she came out bent over 
carrying that iron cooking platter. 

It hit you then and you know it and so why lie about it? You 


i68 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


went all strange inside every time you looked at her and every time 
she looked at you. So why don’t you admit it ? All right, I’ll admit it. 
And as for Pilar, pushing her onto you, all Pilar did was be an in- 
telligent woman. She had taken good care of the girl and she saw 
what was coming the minute the girl came back into the cave with 
the cooking dish. 

So she made things easier. She made things easier so that there was 
last night and this afternoon. She is a damned sight more civilized 
than you are and she knows what time is aU about. Yes, he said to 
himself, I think we can admit that she has certain notions about the 
value of time. She took a beating and all because she did not want 
other people losing what she’d lost and then the idea of admitting 
it was lost was too big a thing to swallow. So she took a beating back 
there on the hill and I guess we did not make it any easier for her. 

- W ell, so that is what happens and what has happened and you 
might as well admit it and now you will never have two whole 
nights with her. Not a lifetime, not to live together, not to have 
what people were always supposed to have, not at all. One night 
that is past, once one afternoon, one night to come; maybe. No, sir. 

Not time, not happiness, not fun, not children, not a house, not a 
bathroom, not a clean pair of pyjamas, not the morning paper, not 
to wake up together, not to wake and know she’s there and that 
you’re not alone. No. None of that. But why, when this is all you 
are going to get in life of what you want; when you have found it; 
why not just one night in a bed with sheets.? 

You ask for the impossible. You ask for the ruddy impossible. 
So if you love this girl as much as you say you do, you had better 
love her very hard and make up in intensity what the relation will 
lack in duration and in continuity. Do you hear that.'- In the old 
days people devoted a lifetime to it. And now when you have found 
it if you get two nights you wonder where all the luck came from. 
Two nights. Two nights to love, honor and cherish. For better and 
for worse. In sickness and in death. No that wasn’t it. In sickness 
and in health. Till death do us part. In two nights. Much more than 
likely. Much more than likely and now lay off that sort of thinking. 
You can stop that now. That’s not good for you. Do nothing that is 
not good for you. Sure that’s it. 

This was what Golz had talked about. The longer he was around. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


169 

the smarter Golz seemed. So this was what he was asking about; 
the compensation of irregular service. Had Golz had this and was 
it the urgency and the lack of time and the circumstances that made 
it.? Was this something that happened to every one given com- 
parable circumstances.? And did he only think it was something 
special because it was happening to him.? Had Golz slept around 
in a hurry when he was commanding irregular cavalry in the Red 
Army and had the combination of the circumstances and the rest 
of it made the girls seem the way Maria was.? 

Probably Golz knew all about this too and wanted to make the 
point that you must make your whole life in the two nights that 
are given to you; that living as we do now you must concentrate 
all of that which you should always have into the short time that 
you can have it. 

It was a good system of belief. But he did not believe that Maria 
had only been made by the circumstances. Unless, of course, she 
is a reaction from her own circumstance as well as his. Her one 
circumstance is not so good, he thought. No, not so good. 

If this was how it was then this was how it was. But there was 
no law that made him say he liked it. I did not know that I could 
ever feel what I have felt, he thought. Nor that this could happen 
to me. I would like to have it for my whole life. You will, the 
other part of him said. You will. You have it now and that is all 
your whole life is; now. There is nothing else than now. There is 
neither yesterday, certainly, nor is there any tomorrow. How old 
must you be before you know that.? There is only now, and if now 
is only two days, then two days is your life and everything in it 
will be in proportion. This is how you live a life in two days. And 
if you stop complaining and asking for what you never will get, you 
will have a good life. A good life is not measured by any biblical 
span. 

So now do not worry, take what you have, and do your work and 
you will have a long life and a very merry one. Hasn’t it been 
merry lately.? What are you complaining about.? That’s the thing 
about this sort of work, he told himself, and was very pleased with 
the thought, it isn’t so much what you learn as it is the people you 
meet. He was pleased then because he was joking and he came back 
to the girl. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


170 

“I love you, rabbit,” he said to the girl. “What was it you were 
saying?” 

“I was saying,” she told him, “that you must not worry about 
your work because I will not bother you nor interfere. If there is 
anything I can do you will tell me.” 

“There’s nothing,” he said. “It is really very simple.” 

“I will learn from Pilar what I should do to take care of a man 
well and those things I will do,” Maria said. “Then, as I learn, 
I will discover things for myself and other things you can tell me.” 

“There is nothing to do.” 

“Que va, man, there is nothing! Thy sleeping robe, this morning, 
should have been shaken and aired and hung somewhere in the 
sun. Then, before the dew comes, it should be taken into shelter.” 

“Go on, rabbit.” 

“Thy socks should be washed and dried. I would see thee had 
two pair.” 

“What else?” 

“If thou would show me I would clean and oil thy pistoL” 

“Kiss me,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Nay, this is serious. Wilt thou show me about the pistol? Pilar 
has rags and oil. There is a cleaning rod inside the cave that 
should fit it.” 

“Sure. I’ll show you.” 

“Then,” Maria said. “If you will teach me to shoot it either one 
of us could shoot the other and himself, or herself, if one were 
wounded and it were necessary to avoid capture.” 

“Very interesting,” Robert Jordan said. “Do you have many ideas 
like that?” 

“Not many,” Maria said. “But it is a good one. Pilar gave me this 
and showed me how to use it,” she opened the breast pocket of her 
shirt and took out a cut-down leather holder such as pocket combs 
are carried in and, removing a wide rubber band that closed both 
ends, took out a Gem type, single-edged razor blade. “I keep this 
always,” she explained. “Pilar says you must make the cut here 
just below the ear and draw it toward here.” She showed him with 
her finger. “She says there is a big artery there and that drawing 
the blade from there you cannot miss it. Also, she says there is no 
pain and you must simply press firmly below the ear and draw it 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS I7I 

downward. She says it is nothing and that they cannot stop it if it 
is done.” 

“That’s right,” said Robert Jordan. “That’s the carotid artery,” 

So she goes around with that all the time, he thought, as a 
definitely accepted and properly organized possibility. 

“But I would rather have thee shoot me,” Maria said. “Promise 
if there is ever any need that thou wilt shoot me.” 

“Sure,” Robert Jordan said. “I promise.” 

“Thank thee very much,” Maria told him, “I know it is not easy 
to do.” 

“That’s all right,” Robert Jordan said. 

You forget all this, he thought. You forget about the beauties of 
a civil war when you keep your mind too much on your work. 
You have forgotten this. Well, you are supposed to. Kashkin 
couldn’t forget it and it spoiled his work. Or do you think the old 
boy had a hunch? It was very strange because he had experienced 
absolutely no emotion about the shooting of Kashkin. He expected 
that at some time he might have it. But so far there had been ab- 
solutely none. 

“But there are other things I can do for thee,” Maria told him, 
walking close beside him, now, very serious and womanly. 

“Besides shoot me?” 

“Yes. I can roll cigarettes for thee when thou hast no more of 
those with tubes. Pilar has taught me to roll them very well, tight 
and neat and not spilling.” 

“Excellent,” said Robert Jordan. “Do you lick them yourself?” 

“Yes,” the girl said, “and when thou art wounded I will care for 
thee and dress thy wound and wash thee and feed thee ” 

“Maybe I won’t be wounded,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Then when you are sick I will care for thee and make thee 
soups and clean thee' and do all for thee. And I will read to thee.” 

“Maybe I won’t get sick.” 

“Then I will bring thee coffee in the morning when thou wak- 
est ” 

“Maybe I don’t like coffee,” Robert Jordan told her. 

“Nay, but you do,” the girl said happily. “This morning you 
took two cups.” 

“Suppose I get tired of coffee and there’s no need to shoot me and 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


172 

I’m neither wounded nor sick and I give up smoking and have 
only one pair of socks and hang up my robe myself. What then, 
rabbit .i*” he patted her on the back. “What then.?” 

“Then,” said Maria, “I will borrow the scissors of Pilar and cut 
thy hair.” 

“I don’t like to have my hair cut.” 

“Neither do I,” said Maria. “And I like thy hair as it is. So. If 
there is nothing to do for thee, I will sit by thee and watch- thee 
and in the nights we will make love.” 

“Good,” Robert Jordan said. “The last project is very sensible.” 

“To me it seems the same,” Maria smiled. “Oh, Ingles,” she 
said. 

“My name is Roberto.” 

“Nay. But I call thee Ingles as Pilar does.” 

“Still it is Roberto.” 

“No,” she told him. ‘Nlow for a whole day.it is Ingles. And 
Ingles, can I help thee with thy work.?” 

“No. What I do now I do alone and very coldly in my head.” 

“Good,” she said. “And when will it be finished?” 

“Tonight, with luck.” 

“Good,” she said. 

Below them was the last woods that led to the camp. 

“Who is that?” Robert Jordan asked and pointed. 

“Pilar,” the girl said, looking along his arm. “Surely it is Pilar.” 

At the lower edge of the meadow where the first trees grew the 
woman was sitting, her head on her arms. She looked hke a dark 
bundle from where they stood; black against the brown of the tree 
trunk. 

“Come on,” Robert Jordan said and started to run toward her 
through the knee-high heather. It was heavy and hard to run in 
and when he had run a little way, he slowed and walked. He could 
see the woman’s head was on her folded arms and she looked broad 
and black against the tree trunk. He came up to her and said, 
“Pilar!” sharply. 

The woman raised her head and looked up at him. 

“Oh,” she said. “You have terminated already?” 

“Art thou ill?” he asked and bent down by her. 

“Que va” she said. “I was asleep.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS I73 

“Pilar,” Maria, who had come up, said and kneeled down by her. 
“How are you? Are you all right?” 

“I’m magnificent,” Pilar said but she did not get up. She looked 
at the two o£ them. “Well, Ingles,” she said. “You have been doing 
manly tricks again?” 

“You are all right?” Robert Jordan asked, ignoring the words. 

“Why not? I slept. Did you?” 

“No.” 

“Well,” Pilar said to the girl. “It seems to agree with you.” 

Maria blushed and said nothing. 

“Leave her alone,” Robert Jordan said. 

“No one spoke to thee,” Pilar told him. “Maria,” she said and 
her voice was hard. The girl did not look up. 

“Maria,” the woman said again. “I said it seems to agree with 
thee.” 

“Oh, leave her alone,” Robert Jordan said again. 

“Shut up, you,” Pilar said without looking at him. “Listen, Maria, 
tell me one thing.” 

“No,” Maria said and shook her head. 

“Maria,” Pilar said, and her voice was as hard as her face and 
there was nothing friendly in her face. “Tell me one thing of thy 
own volition.” 

The girl shook her head. 

Robert Jordan was thinking, if I did not have to work with this 
woman and her drunken man and her chicken-crut outfit, I would 
slap her so hard across the face that 

“Go ahead and tell me,” Pilar said to the girl. 

“No,” Maria said. “No.” 

“Leave her alone,” Robert Jordan said and his voice did not sound 
like his own voice. I’ll slap her anyway and the hell with it, he 
thought. 

Pilar did not even speak to him. It was not like a snake charming 
a bird, nor a cat with a bird. There was nothing predatory. Nor 
was there anything perverted about it. There was a spreading, 
though, as a cobra’s hood spreads. He could feel this. He could feel 
the menace of the spreading. But the spreading was a domination, 
not of evil, but of searching. I wish I did not see this, Robert Jor- 
dan thought. But it is not a business for slapping. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


174 

“Maria,” Pilar said. “I will not touch thee. Tell me now of thy 
own volition.” 

“De tu propia voluntad,” the words were in Spanish. 

The girl shook her head. 

“Maria,” Pilar said. “Now and of thy own voHtion. You hear me.? 
Anything at all.” 

“No,” the girl said softly. “No and no.” 

“Now you will tell me,” Pilar told her. “Anything at all. You will 
see. Now you will tell me.” 

“The earth moved,” Maria said, not looking at the woman. 
“Truly. It was a thing I cannot tell thee.” 

“So,” Pilar said and her voice was warm and friendly and there 
was no compulsion in it. But Robert Jordan noticed there were 
small drops of perspiration on her forehead and her Hps. “So there 
was that. So that was it.” 

“It is true,” Maria said and bit her lip. 

“Of course it is true,” Pilar said kindly. “But do not tell it to 
your own people for they never will believe you. You have no Cedi 
blood, Ingles?” 

She got to her feet, Robert Jordan helping her up. 

“No,” he said. “Not that I know of.” 

“Nor has the Maria that she knows of,” Pilar said. “Pues es muy 
raro. It is very strange.” 

“But it happened. Pilar,” Maria said. 

“Como que no, hija?” Pilar said. “Why not, daughter? When I 
was young the earth moved so that you could feel it all shift in space 
and were afraid it would go out from under you. It happened every 
night.” 

“You lie,” Maria said. 

“Yes,” Pilar said. “I lie. It never moves more than three times in 
a I’fetime. Did it really move?” 

“Yes,” the girl said. “Truly.” 

“For you, Ingles?” Pilar looked at Robert Jordan. “Don’t He.” 

“Yes,” he said. “Truly.” 

“Good,” said Pilar. “Good. That is something.” 

“What do you mean about the three times?” Maria asked. “Why 
do you say that?” 

“Three times,” said Pilar. ‘TSTow you’ve had one.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


175 


“Only three times?” 

“For most people, never,” Pilar told her. “You are sure it 
moved?” 

“One could have fallen off,” Maria said. 

“I guess it moved, then,” Pilar said. “Come, then, and let us get 
to camp.” 

“What’s this nonsense about three times?” Robert Jordan said to 
the big woman as they walked through the pines together. 

“Nonsense?” she looked at him wryly. “Don’t talk to me of 
nonsense, little English.” 

“Is it a wizardry like the palms of the hands?” 

“Nay, it is common and proven knowledge with Gitanos.” 

“But we are not Gitanos!’ 

“Nay. But you have had a little luck. Non-gypsies have a little 
luck sometimes.” 

“You mean it truly about the three times?” 

She looked at him again, oddly. “Leave me, Ingles,” she said. 
“Don’t molest me. You are too young for me to speak to.” 

“But, Pilar,” Maria said. 

“Shut up,” Pilar told her. “You have had one and there are two 
more in the world for thee.” 

“And you?” Robert Jordan asked her. 

“Two,” said Pilar and put up two fingers. “Two. And there will 
never be a third.” 

“Why not?” Maria asked. 

“Oh, shut up,” Pilar said. “Shut up. Busnes of thy age bore me.” 

“Why not a third?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“Oh, shut up, will you?” Pilar said. “Shut up!” 

All right, Robert Jordan said to himself. Only I am not having 
any. I’ve known a lot of gypsies and they are strange enough. But 
so are we. The difference is we have to make an honest living. 
Nobody knows what tribes we came from nor what our tribal in- 
heritance is nor what the mysteries were in the woods where the 
people lived that we came from. All we know is that we do not 
know. We know nothing about what happens to us in the nights. 
When it happens in the day though, it is something. Whatever 
happened, happened and now this woman not only has to make the 
girl say it when she did not want to; but she has to take it over 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


176 

and make it her own. She has to make it into a gypsy thing. I 
thought she took a beating up the hill but she was certainly domi- 
nating just now back there. If it had been evil she should have 
been shot. But it wasn’t evil. It was only wanting to keep her hold 
on life. To keep it through Maria. 

When you get through with this war you might take up the 
study of women, he said to himself. You could start with Pilar. She 
has put in a pretty complicated day, if you ask me. She never 
brought in the gypsy stuff before. Except the hand, he thought. Yes, 
of course the hand. And I don’t think she was faking about the 
hand. She wouldn’t tell me what she saw, of course. Whatever she 
saw she believed in herself. But that proves nothing. 

“Listen, Pilar,” he said to the woman. 

Pilar looked at him and smiled. 

“What is it.?” she asked. 

“Don’t be so mysterious,” Robert Jordan said. “These mysteries 
tire me very much.” 

“So.?” Pilar said. 

“I do not believe in ogres, soothsayers, fortune tellers, or chicken- 
crut gypsy witchcraft.” 

“Oh,” said Pilar. 

“No. And you can leave the girl alone.” 

“I will leave the girl alone.” 

“And leave the mysteries,” Robert Jordan said. “We have enough 
work and enough things that wiU be done without comphcating it 
with chicken-crut. Fewer mysteries and more work.” 

“I see,” said Pilar and nodded her head in agreement. “And Hs- 
ten, Ingles’’ she said and smiled at him. “Did the earth move.^” 

“Yes, God-damn you. It moved.” 

Pilar laughed and laughed and stood looking at Robert Jordan 
laughing. 

“Oh, Ingles. Ingles,” she said laughing. “You are very comical. 
You must do much work now to regain thy dignity.” 

The Hell with you, Robert Jordan thought. But he kept his 
mouth shut. While they had spoken the sun had clouded over and 
as he looked back up toward the mountains the sky was now heavy 
and gray. 

“Sure,” Pilar said to him, looking at the sky. “It will snow.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


177 


“Now? almost in June?” 

“Why not? These mountains do not know the names of the 
months. We are in the moon of May.” 

“It can’t be snow,” he said. “It can’t snow.” 

“Just the same, Ingles,” she said to him, “it will snow.” 

Robert Jordan looked up at the thick gray of the sky with the 
sun gone faintly yellow, and now as he watched gone completely 
and the gray becoming uniform so that it was soft and heavy; the 
gray now cutting off the tops of the mountains. 

“Yes,” he said. “I guess you are right.” 



CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


By the time they reached the camp it was snowing and the flakes 
were dropping diagonally through the pines. They slanted through 
the trees, sparse at first and circling as they fell, and then, as the 
cold wind came driving down the mountain, they came whir lin g 
and thick and Robert Jordan stood in front of the cave in a rage and 
watched them. 

“We will have much snow,” Pablo said. His voice was thick and 
his eyes were red and bleary. 

“Has the gypsy come in.?” Robert Jordan asked him. 

“No,” Pablo said. “Neither him nor the old man.” 

“Will you come with me to the upper post on the road?” 

“No,” Pablo said. “I will take no part in this.” 

“I will find it myself.” 

“In this storm you might miss it,” Pablo said. “I would not go 
now.” 

“It’s just downhill to the road and then follow it up.” 

“You could find it. But thy two sentries will be coming up now 
with the snow and you would miss them on the way.” 

“The old man is waiting for me.” 

“Nay. He will come in now with the snow.” 

Pablo looked at the snow that was blowing fast now past the 
mouth of the cave and said, “You do not like the snow, Ingles?" 

Robert Jordan swore and Pablo looked at him through his bleary 
eyes and laughed. 

“With this thy offensive goes, Ingles,” he said. “Come into the 
cave and thy people will be in directly.” 

Inside the cave Maria was busy at the fire and Pilar at the kitchen 
table. The fire was smoking but, as the girl worked with it, poking 
in a stick of wood and then fanning it with a folded paper, there 
was a puff and then a flare and the wood was burning, drawing 
brightly as the wind sucked a draft out of the hole in the roof. 

“And this snow,” Robert Jordan said. “You think there will be 
much?” 


178 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


179 

“Much,” Pablo said contentedly. Then called to Pilar, “You don’t 
like it, woman, either.? Now that you command you do not like this 
snow r 

“A mi que?” Pilar said, over her shoulder. “If it snows it snows.” 

“Drink some wine, Ingles,” Pablo said. “I have been drinking all 
day waiting for the snow.” 

“Give me a cup,” Robert Jordan said. 

“To the snow,” Pablo said and touched cups with him. Robert 
Jordan looked him in the eyes and clinked his cup. You bleary-eyed 
murderous sod, he thought. I’d like to clink this cup against your 
teeth. Ta\e it easy, he told himself, taJ{e it easy. 

“It is very beautiful the snow,” Pablo said. “You won’t want to 
sleep outside with the snow falling.” 

So that’s on your mind too is it? Robert Jordan thought. You’ve 
a lot of troubles, haven’t you, Pablo? 

“No?” he said, politely. 

“No. Very cold,” Pablo said. “Very wet.” 

You don’t know why those old eiderdowns cost sixty-five dollars, 
Robert Jordan thought. I’d like to have a dollar for every time I’ve 
slept in that thing in the snow. 

“Then I should sleep in here?” he asked politely. 

“Yes.” 

“Thanks,” Robert Jordan said. “I’ll be sleeping outside.” 

“In the snow?” 

“Yes” (damn your bloody, red pig-eyes and your swine-bristly 
swines-end of a face). “In the snow.” (In the utterly-damned, ruin- 
ous, unexpected, slutting, defeat-conniving, bastard-cessery of the 
snow.) 

He went over to where Maria had just put another piece of pine 
on the fire. 

“Very beautiful, the snow,” he said to the girl. 

“But it is bad for the work, isn’t it?” she asked him. “Aren’t you 
worried?” 

“Que va,” he said. “Worrying is no good. When will supper be 
ready?” 

“I thought you would have an appetite,” Pilar said. “Do you want 
a cut of cheese now?” 

“Thanks,” he said and she cut him a slice, reaching up to unhook 


i8o 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


the big cheese that hung in a net from the ceiling, drawing a knife 
across the open end and handing him the heavy sUce. He stood, 
eating it. It was just a little too goaty to be enjoyable. 

“Maria,” Pablo said from the table where he was sitting. 

“What.?” the girl asked. 

“Wipe the table clean, Maria,” Pablo said and grinned at Robert 
Jordan. 

“Wipe thine own spillings,” Pilar said to him. “Wipe first thy 
chin and thy shirt and then the table.” 

“Maria,” Pablo called. 

“Pay no heed to him. He is drunk,” Pilar said. 

“Maria,” Pablo called. “It is still snowing and the snow is beau- 
tiful.” 

•i He doesn’t know about that robe, Robert Jordan thought. Good 
old pig-eyes doesn’t know why I paid the Woods boys sixty-five dol- 
lars for that robe. I wish the gypsy would come in though. As soon 
as the gypsy comes I’ll go after the old man. I should go now but 
it is very possible that I would miss them. I don’t know where he is 
posted. 

“Want to make snowballs.?” he said to Pablo. “Want to have a 
snowball fight.?” 

“What.?” Pablo asked. “What do you propose.?” 

“Nothing,” Robert Jordan said. “Got your saddles covered up 
good.?” 

“Yes.” 

Then in English Robert Jordan said, “Going to grain those horses 
or peg them out and let them dig for it.?” 

“What.?” 

“Nothing. It’s your problem, old pal. I’m going out of here on 
my feet.” 

“Why do you speak in English?” Pablo asked. 

“I don’t know,” Robert Jordan said. “When I get very tired some- 
times I speak English. Or when I get very disgusted. Or baffled, say. 
When I get highly baffled I just talk English to hear the sound of 
it. It’s a reassuring noise. You ought to try it sometime.” 

“What do you say, Ingles?" Pilar said. “It sounds very interesting 
but I do not understand.” 

“Nothing,” Robert Jordan said. “I said, ‘nothing’ in English.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


l8l 


“Well then, talk Spanish,” Pilar said. “It’s shorter and simpler in 
Spanish.” 

“Surely,” Robert Jordan said. But oh boy, he thought, oh Pablo, oh 
Pilar, oh Maria, oh you two brothers in the corner whose names I’ve 
forgotten and must remember, but I get tired of it sometimes. Of it 
and of you and of me and of the war and why in all why, did it have 
to snow now That’s too bloody much. No, it’s not. Nothing is too 
bloody much. You just have to take it and fight out of it and now 
stop prima-donnaing and accept the fact that it is snowing as you 
did a moment ago and the next thing is to check with your gypsy 
and pick up your old man. But to snow! Now in this month. Cut it 
out, he said to himself. Cut it out and take it. It’s that cup, you know. 
How did it go about that cup.i^ He’d either have to improve his 
memory or else never think of quotations because when you missed 
one it hung in your mind like a name you had forgotten and you 
could not get rid of it. How did it go about that cup .? 

“Let me have a cup of wine, please,” he said in Spanish. Then, 
“Lots of snow.? Eh.?” he said to Pablo. “Mucha nieve.” 

The drunken man looked up at him and grinned. He nodded his 
head and grinned again. 

“No offensive. No aviones. No bridge. Just snow,” Pablo said. 

“You expect it to last a long time.?” Robert Jordan sat down by 
him. “You think we’re going to be snowed in all summer, Pablo, old 
boy.?” 

“All summer, no,” Pablo said. “Tonight and tomorrow, yes.” 

“What makes you think so.?” 

“There are two kinds of storms,” Pablo said, heavily and judi- 
ciously. “One comes from the Pyrenees. With this one there is great 
cold. It is too late for this one.” 

“Good,” Robert Jordan said. “That’s something.” 

“This storm comes from the Cantabrico,” Pablo said. “It comes 
from the sea. With the wind in this direction there will be a great 
storm and much snow.” 

“Where did you learn all this, old timer?” Robert Jordan asked. 

Now that his rage was gone he was excited by this storm as he was 
always by all storms. In a blizzard, a gale, a sudden line squall, a 
tropical storm, or a summer thunder shower in the mountains there 
was an excitement that came to him from no other thing. It was Hke 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


182 

the excitement of battle except that it was clean. There is a wind 
that blows through battle but that was a hot wind; hot and dry as 
your mouth; and it blew heavily; hot and dirtily; and it rose and 
died away with the fortunes of the day. He knew that wind well. 

But a snowstorm was the opposite of all of that. In the snow- 
storm you came close to wild animals and they were not afraid. They 
travelled across country not knowing where they were and the deer 
stood sometimes in the lee of the cabin. In a snowstorm you rode 
up to a moose and he mistook your horse for another moose and 
trotted forward to meet you. In a snowstorm it always seemed, for a 
time, as though there were no enemies. In a snowstorm the wind 
could blow a gale; but it blew a white cleanness and the air was fuU 
of a driving whiteness and all things were changed and when the 
wind stopped there would be the stillness. This was a big storm and 
he might as well enjoy it. It was ruining everything, but you might 
as well enjoy it. 

“I was an arroyero for many years,” Pablo said. “We trucked 
freight across the mountains with the big carts before the camions 
came into use. In that business we learned the weather.” 

“And how did you get into the movement?” 

“I was always of the left,” Pablo said. “We had many contacts with 
the people of Asturias where they are much developed pohtically. I 
have always been for the Republic.” 

“But what were you doing before the movement?” 

“I worked then for a horse contractor of Zaragoza. He furnished 
horses for the bull rings as well as remounts for the army. It was 
then that I met Pilar who was, as she told you, with the matador 
Finito de Palencia.” 

He said this with considerable pride. 

“He wasn’t much of a matador,” one of the brothers at the table 
said looking at Pilar’s back where she stood in front of the stove. 

“No?” Pilar said, turning around and looking at the man. “He 
wasn’t much of a matador?” 

Standing there now in the cave by the cooking fire she could see 
him, short and brown and sober-faced, with the sad eyes, the 
cheeks sunken and the black hair curled wet on his forehead where 
the tight-fitting matador’s hat had made a red line that no one else 
noticed. She saw him stand, now, facing the five-year-old bull, facing 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


183 

the horns that had lifted the horses high, the great neck thrusting the 
horse up, up, as the rider poked into that neck with the spiked pole, 
thrusting up and up until the horse went over with a crash and the 
rider fell against the wooden fence and, with the bull’s legs thrusting 
him forward, the big neck swung the horns that searched the horse 
for the life that was in him. She saw him, Finito, the not-so-good 
matador, now 'standing in front of the bull and turning sideways 
toward him. She saw him now clearly as he furled the heavy flannel 
cloth around the stick; the flannel hanging blood-heavy from the 
passes where it had swept over the bull’s head and shoulders and 
the wet streaming shine of his withers and on down and over his 
back as the bull raised into the air and the banderillas clattered. She 
saw Finito stand five paces from the bull’s head, profiled, the bull 
standing still and heavy, and draw the sword slowly up until it 
was level with his shoulder and then sight along the dipping blade 
at a point he could not yet see because the bull’s head was higher 
than his eyes. He would bring that head down with the sweep his 
left arm would make with the wet, heavy cloth; but now he rocked 
back a little on his heels and sighted along the blade, profiled in front 
of the splintered horn; the bull’s chest heaving and his eyes watching 
the cloth. 

She saw him very clearly now and she heard his thin, clear voice 
as he turned his head and looked toward the people in the first 
row of the ring above the red fence and said, “Let’s see if we can 
kill him like this!” 

She could hear the voice and then see the first bend of the 
knee as he started forward and watch his voyage in onto the horn 
that lowered now magically as the bull’s muzzle followed the low 
swept cloth, the thin, brown wrist controlled, sweeping the horns 
down and past, as the sword entered the dusty height of the withers. 

She saw its brightness going in slowly and steadily as though 
the bull’s rush plucked it into himself and out from the man’s 
hand and she watched it move in until the brown knuckles rested 
against the taut hide and the short, brown man whose eyes had 
never left the entry place of the sword now swung his sucked-in 
belly clear of the horn and rocked clear from the animal, to stand 
holding the cloth on the stick in his left hand, raising his right 
hand to watch the bull die. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


184 

She saw him standing, his eyes watching the bull trying to hold 
the ground, watching the bull sway like a tree before it falls, 
watching the bull fight to hold his feet to the earth, the short man’s 
hand raised in a formal gesture of triumph. She saw him standing 
there in the sweated, hollow relief of it being over, feeling the relief 
that the bull was dying, feeling the relief that there had been no 
shock, no blow of the horn as he came clear from it and then, as he 
stood, the bull could hold to the earth no longer and crashed over, 
rolling dead with all four feet in the air, and she could see the short, 
brown man walking tired and unsmiling to the fence. 

She knew he could not run across the ring if his life depended on 
it and she watched him walk slowly to the fence and wipe his 
mouth on a towel and look up at her and shake his head and then 
wipe his face on the towel and start his triumphant circling of the 
ring. 

She saw him moving slowly, dragging around the ring, smiling, 
bowing, smiling, his assistants walking behind him, stooping, pick- 
ing up cigars, tossing back hats; he circling the ring sad-eyed and 
smiling, to end the circle before her. Then she looked over and 
saw him sitting now on the step of the wooden fence, his mouth 
in a towel. 

Pilar saw all this as she stood there over the fire and she said, “So 
he wasn’t a good matador? With what class of people is my life 
passed now!” 

“He was a good matador,” Pablo said. “He was handicapped by 
his short stature.” 

“And clearly he was tubercular,” Primitivo said. 

“Tubercular?” Pilar said. “Who wouldn’t be tubercular from the 
punishment he received? In this country where no poor man can 
ever hope to make money unless he is a criminal like Juan March, 
or a bullfighter, or a tenor in the opera? Why wouldn’t he be 
tubercular? In a country where the bourgeoisie over-eat so that their 
stomachs are all ruined and they cannot live without bicarbonate of 
soda and the poor are hungry from their birth till the day they die, 
why wouldn’t he be tubercular? If you travelled under the seats in 
third-class carriages to ride free when you were following the fairs 
learning to fight as a boy, down there in the dust and dirt with the 
fresh spit and the dry spit, wouldn’t you be tubercular if your chest 
was beaten out by horns?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


185 


“Clearly,” Primitivo said. “I only said he was tubercular.” 

“Of course he was tubercular,” Pilar said, standing, there with the 
big wooden stirring spoon in her hand. “He was short of stature 
and he had a thin voice and much fear of bulls. Never have I seen a 
man with more fear before the bullfight and never have I seen a man 
with less fear in the ring. You,” she said to Pablo. “You are afraid 
to die now. You think that is something of importance. But Finite 
was afraid all the time and in the ring he was like a lion.” 

“He had the fame of being very valiant,” the second brother said. 

“Never have I known a man with so much fear,” Pilar said. “He 
would not even have a bull’s head in the house. One time at the 
feria of Valladolid he killed a bull of Pablo Romero very well ” 

“I remember,” the first brother said. “I was at the ring. It was a 
soap-colored one with a curly forehead and with very high horns. 
It was a bull of over thirty arrobas. It was the last bull he killed in 
Valladolid.” 

“Exactly,” Pilar said. “And afterwards the club of enthusiasts 
who met in the Cafe Colon and had taken his name for their club 
had the head of the bull mounted and presented it to him at a small 
banquet at the Cafe Colon. During the meal they had the head on 
the wall, but it was covered with a cloth. I was at the table and 
others were there, Pastora, who is uglier than I am, and the Nina 
de los Peines, and other gypsies and whores of great category. It 
was a banquet, small but of great intensity and almost of a violence 
due to a dispute between Pastora and one of the most significant 
whores over a question of propriety. I, myself, was feeling more than 
happy and I was sitting by Finite and I noticed he would not look 
up at the bull’s head, which was shrouded in a purple cloth as the 
images of the saints are covered in church during the week of the 
passion of our former Lord. 

“Finite did not eat much because he had received a palotazo, a 
blow from the flat of the horn when he had gone in to kill in his 
last corrida of the year at Zaragoza, and it had rendered him un- 
conscious for some time and even now he could not hold food on 
his stomach and he would put his handkerchief to his mouth and 
deposit a quantity of blood in it at intervals throughout the banquet. 
What was I going to tell you.?” 

“The bull’s head,” Primitivo said. “The stuffed head of the bull.” 

“Yes,” Pilar said. “Yes. But I must tell certain details so that you 


i86 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


will see it. Finite was never very merry, you know. He was essentially 
solemn and I had never known him when we were alone to laugh 
at anything. Not even at things which were very comic. He took 
everything with great seriousness. He was almost as serious as 
Fernando. But this was a banquet given him by a club of aficionados 
banded together into the Club Finito and it was necessary for him 
to give an appearance of gaiety and friendliness and merriment. So 
all during the meal he smiled and made friendly remarks and it was 
only I who noticed what he was doing with the handkerchief. He 
had three handkerchiefs with him and he filled the three of them 
and then he said to me in a very low voice, ‘Pilar, I can support this 
no further. I think I must leave.’ 

“ ‘Let us leave then,’ I said. For I saw he was suffering much. 
There was great hilarity by this time at the banquet and the noise 
was tremendous. 

“ ‘No. I cannot leave,’ Finito said to me. ‘After all it is a club 
named for me and I have an obligation.’ 

“ ‘If thou art ill let us go,’ I said. 

“ ‘Nay,’ he said. ‘I will stay. Give me some of that manzanilla.’ 

“I did not think it was wise of him to drink, since he had eaten 
nothing, and since he had such a condition of the stomach; but he 
was evidently unable to support the merriment and the hilarity and 
the noise longer without taking something. So I watched him drink, 
very rapidly, almost a bottle of the manzanilla. Having exhausted 
his handkerchiefs he was now employing his napkin for the use he 
had previously made of his handkerchiefs. 

“Now indeed the banquet had reached a stage of great enthusiasm 
and some of the least heavy of the whores were being paraded 
around the table on the shoulders of various of the club members. 
Pastora was prevailed upon to sing and El Nino Ricardo played 
the guitar and it was very moving and an occasion of true joy and 
drunken friendship of the highest order. Never have I seen a banquet 
at which a higher pitch of real flamenco enthusiasm was reached and 
yet we had not arrived at the unveiling of the bull’s head which was, 
after all, the reason for the celebration of the banquet. 

“I was enjoying myself to such an extent and I was so busy clap- 
ping my hands to the playing of Ricardo and aiding to make up a 
team to clap for the singing of the Nina de los Peines that I did not 
notice that Finito had filled his own napkin by now, and that he 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


187 

had taken mine. He was drinking more manzanilla now and his 
eyes were very bright, and he was nodding very happily to every one. 
He could not speak much because at any time, while speaking, he 
might have to resort to his napkin; but he was giving an appearance 
of great gayety and enjoyment which, after all, was what he was 
there for. 

“So the banquet proceeded and the man who sat next to me had 
been the former manager of Rafael el Gallo and he was telling me 
a story, and the end of it was, ‘So Rafael came to me and said, “You 
are the best friend I have in the world and the noblest. I love you 
like a brother and I wish to make you a present.” So then he gave 
me a beautiful diamond stick pin and kissed me on both cheeks and 
we were both very moved. Then Rafael el Gallo, having given me 
the diamond stick pin, walked out of the cafe and I said to Retana 
who was sitting at the table, “That dirty gypsy had just signed a 
contract with another manager.” ’ 

““‘What do you mean.?” Retana asked.’ 

“ ‘I’ve managed him for ten years and he has never given me a 
present before,’ the manager of El Gallo had said. ‘That’s the only 
thing it can mean.’ And sure enough it was true and that was how 
El Gallo left him. 

“But at this point, Pastora intervened in the conversation, not per- 
haps as much to defend the good name of Rafael, since no one had 
ever spoken harder against him than she had herself, but because the 
manager had spoken against the gypsies by employing the phrase, 
‘Dirty gypsy.’ She intervened so forcibly and in such terms that the 
manager was reduced to silence. I intervened to quiet Pastora and 
another Ghana intervened to quiet me and the din was such that 
no one could distinguish any words which passed except the one 
great word whore which roared out above all other words until quiet 
was restored and the three of us who had intervened sat looking 
down into our glasses and then I noticed that Finite was staring at 
the bull’s head, still draped in the purple cloth, with a look of horror 
on his face. 

“At this moment the president of the Club commenced the speech 
which was to precede the unveiling of the head and all through the 
speech which was applauded with shouts of 'Ole!’ and poundings 
on the table I was watching Finite who was making use of his, no, my, 
napkin and sinking further back in his chair and staring with horror 


i88 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


and fascination at the shrouded bull’s head on the wall opposite him. 

“Toward the end of the speech, Finite began to shake his head 
and he got further back in the chair all the time. 

“ ‘How are you, little one?’ I said to him but when he looked at 
me he did not recognize me and he only shook his head and said, 
‘No. No. No.’ 

“So the president of the Club reached the end of the speech and 
then, with everybody cheering him, he stood on a chair and reached 
up and untied the cord that bound the purple shroud over the head 
and slowly pulled it clear of the head and it stuck on one of the 
horns and he lifted it clear and pulled it off the sharp polished horns 
and there was that great yellow bull with black horns that swung 
way out and pointed forward, their white tips sharp as porcupine 
quills, and the head of the bull was as though he were alive; his fore- 
head was curly as in life and his nostrils were open and his eyes were 
bright and he was there looking straight at Finite. 

“Every one shouted and applauded and Finite sunk further back 
in the chair and then every one was quiet and looking at him and 
he said, ‘No. No,’ and looked at the bull and pulled further back 
and then he said, ‘No!’ very loudly and a big blob of blood came 
out and he didn’t even put up the napkin and it slid down his chin 
and he was still looking at the bull and he said, ‘All season, yes. To 
make money, yes. To eat, yes. But I can’t eat. Hear me? My 
stomach’s bad. But now with the season finished! No! No! No!’ He 
looked around at the table and then he looked at the bull’s head and 
said, ‘No,’ once more and then he put his head down and he put his 
napkin up to his mouth and then he just sat there like that and said 
nothing and the banquet, which had started so well, and promised 
to mark an epoch in hilarity and good fellowship was not a success.” 

“Then how long after that did he die?” Primitivo asked. 

“That winter,” Pilar said. “He never recovered from that last blow 
with the flat of the horn in Zaragoza. They are worse than a goring, 
for the injury is internal and it does not heal. He received one almost 
every time he went in to kill and it was for this reason he was not 
more successful. It was difficult for him to get out from over the horn 
because of his short stature. Nearly always the side of the horn 
struck him. But of course many were only glancing blows.” 

“If he was so short he should not have tried to be a matador,” 
Primitivo said. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 189 

Pilar looked at Robert Jordan and shook her head. Then she bent 
over the big iron pot, still shaking her head. 

What a people they are, she thought. What a people are the 
Spaniards, “and if he was so short he should not have tried to be 
a matador.” And I hear it and say nothing. I have no rage for that 
and having made an explanation I am silent. How simple it is when 
one knows nothing. Que sencillo! Knowing nothing one says, “He 
was not much of a matador.” Knowing nothing another says, “He 
was tubercular.” And another says, after one, knowing, has explained, 
“If he was so short he should not have tried to be a matador.” 

Now, bending over the fire, she saw on the bed again the naked 
brown body with the gnarled scars in both thighs, the deep, seared 
whorl below the ribs on the right side of the chest and the long white 
welt along the side that ended in the armpit. She saw the eyes closed 
and the solemn brown face and the curly black hair pushed back 
now from the forehead and she was sitting by him on the bed rub- 
bing the legs, chafing the taut muscles of the calves, kneading them, 
loosening them, and then tapping them lightly with her folded 
hands, loosening the cramped muscles. 

“How is it.?” she said to him. “How are the legs, little one?” 

“Very well. Pilar,” he would say without opening his eyes. 

“Do you want me to rub the chest?” 

“Nay, Pilar. Please do not touch it.” 

“And the upper legs?” 

“No. They hurt too badly.” 

“But if I rub them and put liniment on, it will warm them and 
they will be better.” 

“Nay, Pilar. Thank thee. I would rather they were not touched.” 

“I will wash thee with alcohol.” 

“Yes. Do it very lightly.” 

“You were enormous in the last bull,” she would say to him and 
he would say, “Yes, I killed him very well.” 

Then, having washed him and covered him with a sheet, she would 
lie by him in the bed and he would put a brown hand out and touch 
her and say, “Thou art much woman. Pilar.” It was the nearest to 
a joke he ever made and then, usually, after the fight, he would go 
to sleep and she would lie there, holding his hand in her two hands 
and listening to him breathe. 

He was often frightened in his sleep and she would feel his hand 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


190 

grip tightly and see the sweat bead on his forehead and if he woke, 
she said, “It’s nothing,” and he slept again. She was with him thus 
five years and never was unfaithful to him, that is almost never, and 
then after the funeral, she took up with Pablo who led picador horses 
in the ring and was like all the bulls that Finite had spent his life 
killing. But neither bull force nor bull courage lasted, she knew now, 
and what did last.i* I last, she thought. Yes, I have lasted. But for 
what ? 

“Maria,” she said. “Pay some attention to what you are doing. 
That is a fire to cook with. Not to burn down a city.” 

Just then the gypsy came in the door. He was covered with snow 
and he stood there holding his carbine and stamping the snow from 
his feet. 

Robert Jordan stood up and went over to the door, “Well.i*” he 
said to the gypsy. 

“Six-hour watches, two men at a time on the big bridge,” the 
gypsy said. “There are eight men and a corporal at the road-menders’ 
hut. Here is thy chronometer.” 

“What about the sawmill post.^” 

“The old man is there. He can watch that and the road both.” 

“And the road?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“The same movement as always,” the gypsy said. “Nothing out of 
the usual. Several motor cars.” 

The gypsy looked cold, his dark face was drawn with the cold 
and his hands were red. Standing in the mouth of the cave he took 
off his jacket and shook it. 

“I stayed until they changed the watch,” he said. “It was changed 
at noon and at six. That is a long watch. I am glad I am not in their 
army.” 

“Let us go for the old man,” Robert Jordan said, putting on his 
leather coat. 

“Not me,” the gypsy said. “I go now for the fire and the hot soup. 
I will tell one of these where he is and he can guide you. Hey, 
loafers,” he called to the men who sat at the table. “Who wants to 
guide the Ingles to where the old man is watching the road?” 

“I will go,” Fernando rose. “Tell me where it is.” 

“Listen,” the gypsy said. “It is here—” and he told him where the 
old man, Anselmo, was posted. 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 


Anselmo was crouched in the lee of the trunk of a big tree and the 
snow blew past on either side. He was pressed close against the tree 
and his hands were inside of the sleeves of his jacket, each hand 
shoved up into the opposite sleeve, and his head was pulled as far 
down into the jacket as it would go. If I stay here much longer I will 
freeze, he thought, and that will be of no value. The Ingles told me 
to stay until I was relieved but he did not know then about this 
storm. There has been no abnormal movement on the road and I 
know the dispositions and the habits of this post at the sawmill 
across the road. I should go now to the camp. Anybody with sense 
would be expecting me to return to the camp. I will stay a little 
longer, he thought, and then go to the camp. It is the fault of the 
orders, which are too rigid. There is no allowance for a change in 
circumstance. He rubbed his feet together and then took his hands 
out of the jacket sleeves and bent over and rubbed his legs with 
them and patted his feet together to keep the circulation going. It 
was less cold there, out of the wind in the shelter of the tree, but 
he would have to start walking shortly. 

As he crouched, rubbing his feet, he heard a motorcar on the road. 
It had on chains and one link of chain was slapping and, as he 
watched, it came up the snow-covered road, green and brown painted, 
in broken patches of daubed color, the windows blued over so that 
you could not see in, with only a half circle left clear in the blue 
for the occupants to look out through. It was a two-year-old Rolls 
Royce town car camouflaged for the use of the General Staff but 
Anselmo did not know that. He could not see into the car where 
three officers sat wrapped in their capes. Two were on the back seat 
and one sat on the folding chair. The officer on the folding chair was 
looking out of the slit in the blue of the window as the car passed 
but Anselmo did not know this. Neither of them saw the other. 

The car passed in the snow directly below him. Anselmo saw the 
chauffeur, red-faced and steel-helmeted, his face and helmet project- 
ing out of the blanket cape he wore and he saw the forward jut of 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


192 

the automatic rifle the orderly who sat heside the chauffeur carried. 
Then the car was gone up the road and Anselmo reached into the 
inside of his jacket and took out from his shirt pocket the two sheets 
torn from Robert Jordan’s notebook and made a mark after the 
drawing of a motorcar. It was the tenth car up for the day. Six had 
come down. Four were still up. It was not an unusual amount of 
cars to move upon that road but Anselmo did not distinguish be- 
tween the Fords, Fiats, Opels, Renaults, and Citroens of the staff of 
the Division that held the passes and the line of the mountain and the 
Rolls-Royces, Lancias, Mercedes, and Isottas of the General Staff. 
This was the sort of distinction that Robert Jordan should have made 
and, if he had been there instead of the old man, he would have ap- 
preciated the significance of these cars which had gone up. But he 
was not there and the old man simply made a mark for a motor- 
car going up the road, on the sheet of note paper. 

Anselmo was now so cold that he decided he had best go to camp 
before it was dark. He had no fear of missing the way, but he 
thought it was useless to stay longer and the wind was blowing 
colder all the time and there was no lessening of the snow. But when 
he stood up and stamped his feet and looked through the driving 
snow at the road he did not start off up the hillside but stayed lean- 
ing against the sheltered side of the pine tree. 

The Ingles told me to stay, he thought. Even now he may be on 
the way here and, if I leave this place, he may lose himself in the 
snow searching for me. All through this war we have suffered from 
a lack of discipline and from the disobeying of orders and I will 
wait a while still for the Ingles. But if he does not c<5’me soon I 
must go in spite of all orders for I have a report to make now, and 
I have much to do in these days, and to freeze here is an exaggeration 
and without utility. 

Across the road at the sawmill smoke was coming out of the chim- 
ney and Anselmo could smell it blown toward him through the 
snow. The fascists are warm, he thought, and they are comfortable, 
and tomorrow night we will kill them. It is a strange thing and I do 
not like to think of it. I have watched them all day and they are the 
same men that we are. I believe that I could walk up to the mill 
and knock on the door and I would be welcome except that they 
have orders to challenge all travellers and ask to see their papers. It 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


193 

is only orders that come between us. Those men are not fascists. I 
call tnem so, but they are not. I'hey are poor men as we are. They 
should never be fighting against us and I do not like to think of the 
killing. 

Ihese at this post are Gallegos. I know that from hearing them 
talk this afternoon. They cannot desert because if they do their 
families will be shot. Gallegos are either very intelligent or very 
dumb and brutal. I have known both kinds. Lister is a Gallego from 
the same town as Franco. I wonder what these Gallegos think of this 
snow now at this time of year. They have no high mountains such 
as these and in their country it always rains and it is always green. 

A light showed in the window of the sawmill and Anselmo 
shivered and thought, damn that Inglesl There are the Gallegos 
warm and in a house here in our country, and I am freezing behind 
a tree and we live in a hole in the rocks like beasts in the mountain. 
But tomorrow, he thought, the beasts will come out of their hole and 
these that are now so comfortable will die warm in their blankets. 
As those died in the night when we raided Otero, he thought. He 
did not like to remember Otero. 

In Otero, that night, was when he first killed and he hoped he 
would not have to kill in this of the suppressing of these posts. It 
was in Otero that Pablo knifed the sentry when Anselmo pulled the 
blanket over his head and the sentry caught Anselmo’s foot and held 
it, smothered as he was in the blanket, and made a crying noise in 
the blanket and Anselmo had to feel in the blanket and knife him 
until he let go of the foot and was still. He had his knee across the 
man’s throat to keep him silent and he was knifing into the bundle 
when Pablo tossed the bomb through the window into the room 
where the men of the post were all sleeping. And when the flash came 
it was as though the whole world burst red and yellow before your 
eyes and two more bombs were in already. Pablo had pulled the pins 
and tossed them quickly through the window, and those who were 
not killed in their beds were killed as they rose from bed when the 
second bomb exploded. That was in the great days of Pablo when 
he scourged the country like a tartar and no fascist post was safe 
at night. 

And now, he is as finished and as ended as a boar that h. 
altered, Anselmo thought, and, when the altering has been a.: 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


194 

complished and the squealing is over you cast the two stones away 
and the boar, that is a boar no longer, goes snouting and rooting up 
to them and eats them. No, he is not that bad, Anselmo grinned, one 
can think too badly even of Pablo. But he is ugly enough and 
changed enough. 

It is too cold, he thought. That the Ingles should come and that I 
should not have to kill in this of the posts. These four Gallegos and 
their corporal are for those who like the killing. The Ingles said 
that. I will do it if it is my duty but the Ingles said that I would be 
with him at the bridge and that this would be left to others. At the 
bridge there will be a battle and, if I am able to endure the batde, 
then I will have done all that an old man may do in this war. But 
let the Ingles come now, for I am cold and to see the light in the 
mill where I know that the Gallegos are warm makes me colder still. 
I wish that I were in my own house again and that this war were 
over. But you have no house now, he thought. We must win this war 
before you can ever return to your house. 

Inside the sawmill one of the soldiers was sitting on his bunk and 
greasing his boots. Another lay in his bunk sleeping. The third was 
cooking and the corporal was reading a paper. Their helmets hung 
on nails driven into the wall and their rifles leaned against the plank 
wall. 

“What kind of country is this where it snows when it is almost 
June.?” the soldier who was sitting on the bunk said. 

“It is a phenomenon,” the corporal said. 

“We are in the moon of May,” the soldier who was cooking said. 
“The moon of May has not yet terminated.” 

“What kind of a country is it where it snows in May.?” the soldier 
on the bunk insisted. 

“In May snow is no rarity in these mountains,” the corporal said. 
“I have been colder in Madrid in the month of May than in any 
other month.” 

“And hotter, too,” the soldier who was cooking said. 

“May is a month of great contrasts in temperature,” the corporal 
said. “Here, in Castile, May is a month of great heat but it can 
have much cold.” 

“Or rain,” the soldier on the bunk said. “In this past May it rained 
almost every day.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS I95 

“It did not,” the soldier who was cooking said. “And anyway this 
past May was the moon of April.” 

“One could go crazy listening to thee and thy moons,” the corporal 
said. “Leave this of the moons alone.” 

“Any one who lives either by the sea or by the land knows that 
it is the moon and not the month which counts,” the soldier who 
was cooking said. “Now for example, we have just started the moon 
of May. Yet it is coming on June.” 

“Why then do we not get definitely behind in the seasons?” the 
corporal said. “The whole proposition gives me a headache.” 

“You are from a town,” the soldier who was cooking said. “You 
are from Lugo. What would you know of the sea or of the land?” 

“One learns more in a town than you analjabetos learn in thy 
sea or thy land.” 

“In this moon the first of the big schools of sardines come,” the 
soldier who was cooking said. “In this moon the sardine boats will 
be outfitting and the mackerel will have gone north.” 

“Why are you not in the navy if you come from Noya?” the 
corporal asked. 

“Because I am not inscribed from Noya but from Negreira, where 
I was born. And from Negreira, which is up the river Tambre, they 
take you for the army.” 

“Worse luck,” said the corporal. 

“Do not think the navy is without peril,” the soldier who was sit- 
ting on the bunk said. “Even without the possibility of combat that 
is a dangerous coast in the winter.” 

“Nothing can be worse than the army,” the corporal said. 

“And you a corporal,” the soldier who was cooking said. “What 
a way of speaking is that?” 

“Nay,” the corporal said. “I mean for dangers. I mean the endur- 
ance of bombardments, the necessity to attack, the life of the parapet.” 

“Here we have little of that,” the soldier on the bunk said. 

“By the Grace of God,” the corporal said. “But who knows when 
we will be subject to it again? Certainly we will not have something 
as easy as this forever!” 

“How much longer do you think we will have this detail?” 

“I don’t know,” the corporal said. “But I wish we could have it 
for all of the war.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


196 

“Six hours is too long to be on guard,” the soldier who was cook- 
ing said. 

“We will have three-hour watches as long as this storm holds,” 
the corporal said. “That is only normal.” 

“What about all those staff cars.?” the soldier on the bunk asked. 
“I did not like the look of all those staff cars.” 

“Nor I,” the corporal said. “All such things are of evil omen.” 

“And aviation,” the soldier who was cooking said. “Aviation is 
another bad sign.” 

“But we have formidable aviation,” the corporal said. “The reds 
have no aviation such as we have. Those planes this morning were 
something to make any man happy.” 

“I have seen the red planes when they were something serious,” 
the soldier on the bunk said. “I have seen those two motor bombers 
when they were a horror to endure.” 

“Yes. But they are not as formidable as our aviation,” the corporal 
said. “We have an aviation that is insuperable.” 

This was how they were talking in the sawmill while Anselmo 
waited in the snow watching the road and the light in the sawmill 
window. 

I hope I am not for the killing, Anselmo was thinking. I think 
that after the war there will have to be some great penance done for 
the killing. If we no longer have religion after the war then I think 
there must be some form of civic penance organized that all may be 
cleansed from the killing or else we will never have a true and hu- 
man basis for living. The killing is necessary, I know, but still the 
doing of it is very bad for a man and I think that, after all this is 
over and we have won the war, there must be a penance of some 
kind for the cleansing of us all. 

Anselmo was a very good man and whenever he was alone for 
long, and he was alone much of the time, this problem of the kill- 
ing returned to him. 

I wonder about the Ingles, he thought. He told me that he did 
not mind it. Yet he seems to be both sensitive and kind. It may be 
that in the younger people it does not have an importance. It may 
be that in foreigners, or in those who have not had our religion, 
there is not the same attitude. But I think any one doing it will be 
brutalized in time and I think that even though necessar)', it is a 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


great sin and that afterwards we must do something very strong to 
atone for it. 

It was dark now and he looked at the light across the road and 
shook his arms against his chest to warm them. Now, he thought, he 
would certainly leave for the camp; but something kept him there 
beside the tree above the road. It was snowing harder and Anselmo 
thought: if only we could blow the bridge tonight. On a night like 
this it would be nothing to take the posts and blow the bridge and 
it would all be over and done with. On a night like this you could 
do anything. 

Then he stood there against the tree stamping his feet softly and 
he did not think any more about the bridge. The coming of the dark 
always made him feel lonely and tonight he felt so lonely that there 
was a hollowness in him as of hunger. In the old days he could help 
this loneliness by the saying of prayers and often coming home from 
hunting he would repeat a great number of the same prayer and it 
made him feel better. But he had not prayed once since the move- 
ment. He missed the prayers but he thought it would be unfair and 
hypocritical to say them and he did not wish to ask any favors or 
for any different treatment than all the men were receiving. 

No, he thought, I am lonely. But so are all the soldiers and the 
wives of all the soldiers and all those who have lost families or parents. 
I have no wife, but I am glad that she died before the movement. 
She would not have understood it. I have no ch lldxea -and-T TTCver 
will ha ve any children. I am lonely in the day when I am not working' 
but when thedark" comes it is a time of great loneliness. But one 
thing I have that no man nor any God can take from me and that 
is that I have worked well for the Republic. I have worked hard for 
the good that we will all share later. I have worked my best from the 
first of the movement and I have done nothing that I am ashamed of. 

All that I am sorry for is the killing. But surely there will be an 
opportunity to atone for that because for a sin of that sort that so 
many bear, certainly some just relief will be devised. I would like to 
talk with the Ingles about it but, being young, it is possible that he 
might not understand. He mentioned the killing before. Or was it 
I that mentioned it.? He must have killed much, but he shows no 
signs of liking it. In those who like it there is always a rottenness. 

It must really be a great sin, he thought. Because certainly it is the 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


198 

one thing we have no right to do even though, as I know, it is nec- 
essary. But in Spain it is done too lightly and often without true 
necessity and there is much quick injustice which, afterward, can 
never be repaired. I wish I did not think about it so much, he 
thought. I wish there were a penance for it that one could commence 
now because it is the only thing that I have done in all my life 
that makes me feel badly when I am alone. All the other things 
are forgiven or one had a chance to atone for them by kindness or 
in some decent way. But I think this of the killing must be a very 
great sin and I would like to fix it up. Later on there may be cer- 
tain days that one can work for the state or something that one can 
do that will remove it. It will probably be something that one pays 
as in the days of the Church, he thought, and smiled. The Church 
was well organized for sin. That pleased him and he was smiling 
in the dark when Robert Jordan came up to him. He came silently 
and the old man did not see him until he was there. 

“Hola, viejo,” Robert Jordan whispered and clapped him on the 
back. “How’s the old one.?” 

“Very cold,” Anselmo said. Fernando was standing a little apart, 
his back turned against the driving snow. 

“Come on,” Robert Jordan whispered. “Get on up to camp and 
get warm. It was a crime to leave you here so long.” 

“That is their light,” Anselmo pointed. 

“Where’s the sentry?” 

“You do not see him from here. He is around the bend.” 

“The hell with them,” Robert Jordan said. “You tell me at camp. 
Come on, let’s go.” 

“Let me show you,” Anselmo said. 

“I’m going to look at it in the morning,” Robert Jordan said. 
“Here, take a swallow of this.” 

He handed the old man his flask. Anselmo tipped it up and swal- 
lowed. 

“ Ayee” he said and rubbed his mouth. “It is fire.” 

“Come on,” Robert Jordan said in the dark. “Let us go.” 

It was so dark now you could only see the flakes blowing past and 
the rigid dark of the pine trunks. Fernando was standing a little way 
up the hill. Look at that cigar store Indian, Robert Jordan thought. 
I suppose I have to offer him a drink. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


199 


“Hey, Fernando,” he said as he came up to him. “A swallow.?” 

“No,” said Fernando. “Thank you.” 

Thank you, I mean, Robert Jordan thought. I’m glad cigar store 
Indians don’t drink. There isn’t too much of that left. Boy, I’m glad 
to see this old man, Robert Jordan thought. He looked at Anseimo 
and then clapped him on the back again as they started up the hill. 

“I’m glad to see you, viejo," he said to Anseimo. “If I ever get 
gloomy, when I see you it cheers me up. Come on, let’s get up 
there.” 

They were going up the hill in the snow. 

“Back to the palace of Pablo,” Robert Jordan said to Anseimo. It 
sounded wonderful in Spanish. 

“El Palacio del Miedo,” Anseimo said. “The Palace nf Fepr.” 

“ Ea cueva de los huevos t>erdidos.” R nherr JnrHan rap ped the oth er 
happily. “The cave ; nf thr Imt ” 

“ What eggs?” F ernando ankH 

“ A joke.” Robert Iordan sa i d “J”'^*' ^ k now 

The othe rs.” 

“But why are the y Inst?” Fernandn ask ed. 

“I don’t know ,” said Robert Jordan. “ Take a book to tell you . 
A sk Pilar,” then he put his arm around Anselmo’s shoulder and held 
him tight as they walked and shook him. “ Listen, ” he said. “I’m 
glad to see you, hear? You don’t know what it means to find some- 

Fo3^ in this country in the same place they were left.” 

It showed what confidence and intimacy he had that he could say 
anything against the country. 

“I am glad to see thee,” Anseimo said. “But I was just about to 
leave.” 

“Like hell you would have,” Robert Jordan said happily. “You’d 
have frozen first.” 

“How was it up above.?” Anseimo asked. 

“Fine,” said Robert Jordan. “Everything is fine.” 

He was very happy with that sudden, rare happiness that can come 
to any one with a command in a revolutionary army; the happiness 
of finding that even one of your flanks holds. If both flanks ever 
held I suppose it would be too much to take, he thought. I don’t 
know who is prepared to stand that. And if you extend along a 
flank, any flank, it eventually becomes one man. Yes, one man. This 



200 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


was not the axiom he wanted. But this was a good man. One good 
man. You are going to be the left flank when we have the batde, 
he thought. I better not tell you that yet. It’s going to be an awfully 
small battle, he thought. But it’s going to be an awfully good one. 
Well, I always wanted to fight one on my own. I always had an 
opinion on what was wrong with everybody else’s, from Agincourt 
down. I will have to make this a good one. It is going to be small 
but very select. If I have to do what I think I will have to do it 
will be very select indeed. 

“Listen,” he said to Anselmo. “I’m awfully glad to see you.” 

“And me to see thee,” the old man said. 

As they went up the hill in the dark, the wind at their backs, the 
storm blowing past them as they climbed, Anselmo did not feel 
lonely. Hej iad not been lonely since t he Indies had clapped him on 
the shoulder. The Invlef was pleased h^ppy and they joked to- 
gether. The ln£les said it all went well and he was not worried. 
The drink in his stomach warmed him and his feet were warming 
now climbing. 

“Not much on the road,” he said to the Ingles. 

“Good,” the Ingles told him. “You will show me when we get 
there.” 

Anselmo was happy now and he was very pleased that he had 
stayed there at the post of observation. 

If he had come in to camp it would have been all right. It would 
have been the intelligent and correct thing to have done under the 
circumstances, Robert Jordan was thinking. But he stayed as he 
was told, Robert Jordan thought. That’s the rarest thing that can 
happen in Spain. To stay in a storm, in a way, corresponds to a lot 
of things. It’s not for nothing that the Germans call an attack a 
storm. I could certainly use a couple more who would stay. I most 
certainly could. I wonder if that Fernando would stay. It’s just pos- 
sible. After all, he is the one who suggested coming out just now. 
Do you suppose he would stay.i^ Wouldn’t that be good.^ He’s just 
about stubborn enough. I’ll have to make some inquiries. Wonder 
what the old cigar store Indian is thinking about now. 

“What are you thinking about, Fernando.?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“Why do you ask.?” 

“Curiosity,” Robert Jordan said. “I am a man of great curiosity.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


201 


“I was thinking of supper,” Fernando said. 

“Do you like to eat?” 

“Yes. Very much.” 

“How’s Pilar’s cooking?” 

“Average,” Fernando answered. 

He’s a second Coolidge, Robert Jordan thought. But, you know, 
I have just a hunch that he would stay. 

The three of them plodded up the hill in the snow. 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


“El Sordo was here,” Pilar said to Robert Jordan. They had come 
in out of the storm to the smoky warmth of the cave and the woman 
had motioned Robert Jordan over to her with a nod of her head. 
“He’s gone to look for horses.” 

“Good. Did he leave any word for me?” 

“Only that he had gone for horses.” 

“And we?” 

“No se,’’ she said. “Look at him.” 

Robert Jordan had seen Pablo when he came in and Pablo had 
grinned at him. Now he looked over at him sitting at the board table 
and grinned and waved his hand. 

“Ingles,” Pablo called. “It’s still falling, Ingles.” 

Robert Jordan nodded at him. 

“Let me take thy shoes and dry them,” Maria said. “I will hang 
them here in the smoke of the fire.” 

“Watch out you don’t burn them,” Robert Jordan told her. “I don’t 
want to go around here barefoot. What’s the matter?” he turned 
to Pilar. “Is this a meeting? Haven’t you any sentries out?” 

“In this storm? Que va.” 

There were six men sitting at the table and leaning back against 
the wall. Anselmo and Fernando were still shaking the snow from 
their jackets, beating their trousers and rapping their feet against 
the wall by the entrance. 

“Let me take thy jacket,” Maria said. “Do not let the snow melt 
on it.” 

Robert Jordan slipped out of his jacket, beat the snow from his 
trousers, and untied his shoes. 

“You will get everything wet here,” Pilar said. 

“It was thee who called me.” 

“Still there is no impediment to returning to the door for thy 
brushing.” 

“Excuse me,” Robert Jordan said, standing in his bare feet on the 
dirt floor. “Hunt me a pair of socks, Maria.” 


202 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 2O3 

“The Lord and Master,” Pilar said and poked a piece of wood into 
the fire. 

"Hay que aprovechar el tiempo,” Robert Jordan told her. “You 
have to take advantage of what time there is.” 

“It is locked,” Maria said. 

“Here is the key,” and he tossed it over. 

“It does not fit this sack.” 

“It is the other sack. They are on top and at the side.” 

The girl found the pair of socks, closed the sack, locked it and 
brought them over with the key. 

“Sit down and put them on and rub thy feet well,” she said. Robert 
Jordan grinned at her. 

“Thou canst not dry them with thy hair?” he said for Pilar to 
hear. 

“What a swine,” she said. “First he is the Lord of the Manor. 
Now he is our ex-Lord Himself. Hit him with a chunk of wood, 
Maria.” 

“Nay,” Robert Jordan said to her. “I am joking because I am 
happy.” 

“You are happy?” 

“Yes,” he said. “I think everything goes very well.” 

“Roberto,” Maria said. “Go sit down and dry thy feet and let me 
bring thee something to drink to warm thee.” 

“You would think that man had never dampened foot before,” 
Pilar said. “Nor that a flake of snow had ever fallen.” 

Maria brought him a sheepskin and put it on the dirt floor of 
the cave. 

“There,” she said. “Keep that under thee until thy shoes are 
dry.” 

The sheepskin was fresh dried and not tanned and as Robert Jor- 
dan rested his stocking feet on it he could feel it crackle like parch- 
ment. 

The fire was smoking and Pilar called to Maria, “Blow up the 
fire, worthless one. This is no smokehouse.” 

“Blow it thyself,” Maria said. “I am searching for the bottle that 
El Sordo left.” 

“It is behind his packs,” Pilar told her. “Must you care for him as 
a sucking child?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


204 

“No,” Maria said. “As a man who is cold and wet. And a man 
who has just come to his house. Here it is.” She brought the botde 
to where Robert Jordan sat. “It is the bottle of this noon. With this 
botde one could make a beautiful lamp. When we have electricity 
again, what a lamp we can make of this bottle.” She looked at the 
pinch-bottle admiringly. “How do you take this, Roberto.'*” 

“I thought I was Ingles,” Robert Jordan said to her. 

“I call thee Roberto before the others,” she said in a low voice and 
blushed. “How do you want it, Roberto.?” 

“Roberto,” Pablo said thickly and nodded his head at Robert Jor- 
dan. “How do you want it, Don Roberto.?” 

“Do you want some.?” Robert Jordan asked him. 

Pablo shook his head. “I am making myself drunk with wine,” 
he said with dignity. 

“Go with Bacchus,” Robert Jordan said in Spanish. 

“Who is Bacchus?” Pablo asked. 

“A comrade of thine,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Never have I heard of him,” Pablo said heavily. “Never in these 
mountains.” 

“Give a cup to Anselmo,” Robert Jordan said to Maria. “It is he 
who is cold.” He was putting on the dry pair of socks and the whis- 
key and water in the cup tasted clean and thinly warming. But it 
does not curl around inside of you the way the absinthe does, he 
thought. There is nothing like absinthe. 

Who would imagine they would have whiskey up here, he thought. 
But La Granja was the most likely place in Spain to find it when 
you thought it over. Imagine Sordo getting a bottle for the visiting 
dynamiter and then remembering to bring it down and leave it. It 
wasn’t just manners that they had. Manners would have been pro- 
ducing the bottle and having a formal drink. That was what the 
French would have done and then they would have saved what was 
left for another occasion. No, the true thoughtfulness of thinking 
the visitor would like it and then bringing it down for him to enjoy 
when you yourself were engaged in something where there was 
every reason to think of no one else but yourself and of nothing 
but the matter in hand— that was Spanish. One kind of Spanish, he 
thought. Remembering to bring the whiskey was one of the reasons 
you loved these people. Don’t go romanticizing them, he thought. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 2O5 

There are as many sorts of Spanish as there are Americans. But still, 
bringing the whiskey was very handsome. 

“How do you like it.?” he asked Anselmo. 

The old man was sitting by the fire with a smile on his face, his 
big hands holding the cup. He shook his head. 

“No.?” Robert Jordan asked him. 

“The child put water in it,” Anselmo said. 

“Exactly as Roberto takes it,” Maria said. “Art thou something 
special.?” 

“No,” Anselmo told her. “Nothing special at all. But I like to feel 
it burn as it goes down.” 

“Give me that,” Robert Jordan told the girl, “and pour him some 
of that which burns.” 

He tipped the contents of the cup into his own and handed it back 
empty to the girl, who poured carefully into it from the bottle. 

“Ah,” Anselmo took the cup, put his head back and let it run 
down his throat. He looked at Maria standing holding the bottle and 
winked at her, tears coming from both his eyes. “That,” he said. 
“That.” Then he licked his lips. “That is what kills the worm that 
haunts us.” 

“Roberto,” Maria said and came over to him, still holding the 
bottle. “Are you ready to eat.?” 

“Is it ready.?” 

“It is ready when you wish it.” 

“Have the others eaten.?” 

“All except you, Anselmo and Fernando.” 

“Let us eat then,” he told her. “And thou.?” 

“Afterwards with Pilar.” 

“Eat now with us.” 

“No. It would not be well.” 

“Come on and eat. In my country a man does not eat before his 
woman.” 

“That is thy country. Here it is better to eat after.” 

“Eat with him,” Pablo said, looking up from the table. “Eat with 
him. Drink with him. Sleep with him. Die with him. Follow the 
customs of his country.” 

“Are you drunk?” Robert Jordan said, standing in front of Pablo. 
The dirty, stubble-faced man looked at him happily. 


206 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“Yes,” Pablo said. “Where is thy country, Ingles, where the women 
eat with the men.?” 

“In Estados Unidos in the state of Montana.” 

“Is it there that the men wear skirts as do the women.?” 

“No. That is in Scotland.” 

“But listen,” Pablo said. “When you wear skirts Uke that, 
Ingles ” 

“I don’t wear them,” Robert Jordan said. 

“When you are wearing those skirts,” Pablo went on, “what do 
you wear under them.?” 

“I don’t know what the Scotch wear,” Robert Jordan said. “I’ve 
wondered myself.” 

“Not the Escoceses,” Pablo said. “Who cares about the Escoceses? 
Who cares about anything with a name as rare as that.? Not me. I 
don’t care. You, I say, Ingles. You. What do you wear under your 
skirts in your country.?” 

“Twice I have told you that we do not wear skirts,” Robert Jor- 
dan said. “Neither drunk nor in joke.” 

“But under your skirts,” Pablo insisted. “Since it is well known 
that you wear skirts. Even the soldiers. I have seen photographs and 
also I have seen them in the Circus of Price. What do you wear 
under your skirts, Ingles?” 

“Los cojones” Robert Jordan said. 

Anselmo laughed and so did the others who were listening; all 
except Fernando. The sound of the word, of the gross word spoken 
before the women, was offensive to him. 

“Well, that is normal,” Pablo said. “But it seems to me that with 
enough cojones you would not wear skirts.” 

“Don’t let him get started again, Ingles,” the flat-faced man with 
the broken nose who was called Primitivo said. “He is drunk. Tell 
me, what do they raise in your country.?” 

“Cattle and sheep,” Robert Jordan said. “Much grain also and 
beans. And also much beets for sugar.” 

The three were at the table now and the others sat close by except 
Pablo, who sat by himself in front of a bowl of the wine. It was the 
same stew as the night before and Robert Jordan ate it hungrily. 

“In your country there are mountains.? With that name surely 
there are mountains,” Primitivo asked politely to make conversation. 
He was embarrassed at the drunkenness of Pablo. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


207 


“Many mountains and very high.” 

“And are there good pastures.?” 

“Excellent; high pasture in the summer in forests controlled by the 
government. Then in the fall the cattle are brought dovi^n to the 
lower ranges.” 

“Is the land there owned by the peasants?” 

“Most land is owned by those who farm it. Originally the land 
was owned by the state and by living on it and declaring the inten- 
tion of improving it, a man could obtain title to a hundred and fifty 
hectares.” 

“Tell me how this is done,” Agustin asked. “That is an agrarian 
reform which means something.” 

Robert Jordan explained the process of homesteading. He had 
never thought of it before as an agrarian reform. 

“That is magnificent,” Primitivo said. “Then you have a com- 
munism in your country?” 

“No. That is done under the Republic.” 

“For me,” Agustin said, “everything can be done under the Re- 
public. I see no need for other form of government.” 

“Do you have no big proprietors?” Andres asked. 

“Many.” 

“Then there must be abuses.” 

“Certainly. There are many abuses.” 

“But you will do away with them?” 

“We try to more and more. But there are many abuses still.” 

“But there are not great estates that must be broken up?” 

“Yes. But there are those who believe that taxes will break them 
up.” 

“How?” 

Robert Jordan, wiping out the stew bowl with bread, explained 
how the income tax and inheritance tax worked. “But the big estates 
remain. Also there are taxes on the land,” he said. 

“But surely the big proprietors and the rich will make a revolution 
against such taxes. Such taxes appear to me to be revolutionary. They 
will revolt against the government when they see that they are threat- 
ened, exactly as the fascists have done here,” Primitivo said. 

“It is possible.” 

“Then you will have to fight in your country as we fight here.” 

“Yes, we will have to fight.” 


208 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“But are there not many fascists in your country?” 

“There are many who do not know they are fascists but will fin d 
it out when the time comes.” 

“But you cannot destroy them until they rebel?” 

“No,” Robert Jordan said. “We cannot destroy them. But we can 
educate the people so that they will fear fascism and recognize it as 
it appears and combat it.” 

“Do you know where there are no fascists?” Andres asked. 

“Where?” 

“In the town of Pablo,” Andres said and grinned. 

“You know what was done in that village?” Primitivo asked 
Robert Jordan. 

“Yes. I have heard the story.” 

“From Pilar?” 

“Yes.” 

“You could not hear all of it from the woman,” Pablo said heavily. 
“Because she did not see the end of it because she fell from a chair 
outside of the window.” 

“You tell him what happened then,” Pilar said. “Since I know not 
the story, let you tell it.” 

“Nay,” Pablo said. “I have never told it.” 

“No,” Pilar said. “And you will not tell it. And now you wish it 
had not happened.” 

“No,” Pablo said. “That is not true. And if all had killed the fas- 
cists as I did we would not have this war. But I would not have had 
it happen as it happened.” 

“Why do you say that?” Primitivo asked him. “Are you changing 
your politics?” 

“No. But it was barbarous,” Pablo said. “In those days I was very 
barbarous.” 

“And now you are drunk,” Pilar said. 

“Yes,” Pablo said. “With your permission.” 

“I liked you better when you were barbarous,” the woman said. 
“Of all men the drunkard is the foulest. The thief when he is not 
stealing is like another. The extortioner does not practise in the 
home. The murderer when he is at home can wash his hands. But 
the drunkard stinks and vomits in his own bed and dissolves his 
organs in alcohol.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


209 

“You are a woman and you do not understand,” Pablo said 
equably. “I am drunk on wine and I would be happy except for 
those people I have killed. All of them fill me with sorrow.” He 
shook his head lugubriously. 

“Give him some of that which Sordo brought,” Pilar said. “Give 
him something to animate him. He is becoming too sad to bear.” 

“If I could restore them to life, I would,” Pablo said. 

“Go and obscenity thyself,” Agustin said to him. “What sort of 
place is this.?” 

“I would bring them all back to life,” Pablo said sadly. “Every 
one.” 

“Thy mother,” Agustin shouted at him. “Stop talking like this 
or get out. Those were fascists you killed.” 

“You heard me,” Pablo said. “I would restore them all to life.” 

“And then you would walk on the water,” Pilar said. “In my life 
I have never seen such a man. Up until yesterday you preserved som ; 
remnants of manhood. And today there is not enough of you left 
to make a sick kitten. Yet you are happy in your suddenness. ’ 

“We should have killed all or none,” Pablo nodded his head. “All 
or none.” 

“Listen, Ingles,” Agustin said. “How did you happen to come 
to Spain .? Pay no attention to Pablo. He is drunk ” 

“I came first twelve years ago to study the country and the lan- 
guage,” Robert Jordan said. “I teach Spanish in a university.” 

“You look very little like a professor,” Primitivo said. 

“He has no beard,” Pablo said. “Look at him. He has no 
beard.” 

“Are you truly a professor.?” 

“An instructor.” 

“But you teach?” 

‘Tes.” 

“But why Spanish.?” Andres asked. “Would it not be easier to 
teach English since you are English?” 

“He speaks Spanish as we do,” Anselmo said. “Why should he 
not teach Spanish?” 

“Yes. But it is, in a way, presumptuous for a foreigner to teach 
Spanish,” Fernando said. “I mean nothing against you, Don Ro- 
berto.” 


210 FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 

“He’s a false professor,” Pablo said, very pleased with himself. “He 
hasn’t got a beard.” 

“Surely you know English better,” Fernando said. “Would it not 
be better and easier and clearer to teach English.?” 

“He doesn’t teach it to Spaniards—” Pilar started to intervene. 

“I should hope not,” Fernando said. 

“Let me finish, you mule,” Pilar said to him. “He teaches Spanish 
to Americans. North Americans.” 

“Can they not speak Spanish.?” Fernando asked. “South Ameri- 
cans can.” 

“Mule,” Pilar said. “He teaches Spanish to North Americans who 
speak English.” 

“Still and all I think it would be easier for him to teach EngHsh 
if that is what he speaks,” Fernando said. 

“Can’t you hear he speaks Spanish.?” Pilar shook her head hope- 
lessly at Robert Jordan. 

“Yes. But with an accent.” 

“Of where.?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“Of Estremadura,” Fernando said primly. 

“Oh my mother,” Pilar said. “What a people!” 

“It is possible,” Robert Jordan said. “I have come here from there.” 

“As he well knows,” Pilar said. “You old maid,” she turned to 
Fernando. “Have you had enough to eat.?” 

“I could eat more if there is a sufficient quantity,” Fernando told 
her. “And do not think that I wish to say anything against you, Don 
Roberto ” 

“Milk,” Agustin said simply. “And milk again. Do we make the 
revolution in order to say Don Roberto to a comrade.?” 

“For me the revolution is so that all will say Don to all,” Fernando 
said. “Thus should it be under the Republic.” 

“Milk,” Agustin said. “Black milk.” 

“And I still think it would be easier and clearer for Don Roberto 
to teach English.” 

“Don Roberto has no beard,” Pablo said. “He is a false 
professor.” 

“What do you mean, I have no beard?” Robert Jordan said. 
“What’s this.?” He stroked his chin and his cheeks where the three- 
day growth made a blond stubble. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


2II 


“Not a beard,” Pablo said. He shook his head. “That’s not a beard.” 
He was almost jovial now. “He’s a false professor.” 

“I obscenity in the milk of all,” Agustin said, “if it does not seem 
like a lunatic asylum here.” 

“You should drink,” Pablo said to him. “To me everything ap- 
pears normal. Except the lack of beard of Don Roberto.” 

Maria ran her hand over Robert Jordan’s cheek. 

“He has a beard,” she said to Pablo. 

“You should know,” Pablo said and Robert Jordan looked at 
him. 

I don’t think he is so drunk, Robert Jordan thought. No, not so 
drunk. And I think I had better watch myself. 

“Thou,” he said to Pablo. “Do you think this snow will last.?” 

“What do you think.?” 

“I asked you.” 

“Ask another,” Pablo told him. “I am not thy service of informa- 
tion. You have a paper from thy service of information. Ask the 
woman. She commands.” 

“I asked thee.” 

“Go and obscenity thyself,” Pablo told him. “Thee and the woman 
and the girl.” 

“He is drunk,” Primitivo said. “Pay him no heed, Ingles.” 

“I do not think he is so drunk,” Robert Jordan said. 

Maria was standing behind him and Robert Jordan saw Pablo 
watching her over his shoulder. The small eyes, like a boar’s, were 
watching her out of the round, stubble-covered head and Robert 
Jordan thought: I have known many killers in this war and some 
before and they were all different; there is no common trait nor fea- 
ture; nor any such thing as the criminal type; but Pablo is certainly 
not handsome. 

“I don’t believe you can drink,” he said to Pablo. “Nor that you’re 
drunk.” 

“I am drunk,” Pablo said with dignity. “To drink is nothing. It 
is to be drunk that is important. Estoy muy borracho.” 

“I doubt it,” Robert Jordan told him. “Cowardly, yes.” 

It was so quiet in the cave, suddenly, that he could hear the hiss- 
ing noise the wood made burning on the hearth where Pilar cooked. 
He heard the sheepskin crackle as he rested his weight on his feet. 


KjL rtvu-»^yO 

212 FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 

He thought he could almost hear the snow falling outside. He could 
not, but he could hear the silence where it fell. 

I’d hke to kill him and have it over with, Robert Jordan was 
thinking. I don’t know what he is going to do, but it is nothing 
good. Day after tomorrow is the bridge and this man is bad and 
he constitutes a danger to the success of the whole enterprise. Come 
on. Let us get it over with. 

Pablo grinned at him and put one finger up and wiped it across 
his throat. He shook his head that turned only a htde each way on 
his thick, short neck. 

“Nay, Ingles,” he said. “Do not provoke me.” He looked at Pilar 
and said to her, “It is not thus that you get rid of me.” 

“Sinverguenza,” Robert Jordan said to him, committed now in his 
own mind to the action. “Cobarde.” 

“It is very possible,” Pablo said. “But I am not to be provoked. 
Take something to drink, Ingles, and signal to the woman it was 
not successful.” 

“Shut thy mouth,” Robert Jordan said. “I provoke thee for my- 
self.” 

“It is not worth the trouble,” Pablo told him. “I do not provoke.” 

“Thou art a bicho raro,” Robert Jordan said, not wanting to let 
it go; not wanting to have it fail for the second time; knowing 
as he spoke that this had all been gone through before; having that 
feeling that he was playing a part from memory of something that 
he had read or had dreamed, feeling it all moving in a circle. 

“Very rare, yes,” Pablo said. “Very rare and very drunk. To your 
health, Ingles.” He dipped a cup in the wine bowl and held it up. 
“Salud y cojones.” 

He’s rare, all right, Robert Jordan thought, and smart, and very 
complicated. He could no longer hear the fire for the sound of his 
own breathing. 

“Here’s to you,” Robert Jordan said, and dipped a cup into the 
wine. Betrayal wouldn’t amount to anything without all these 
pledges, he thought. Pledge up. “Salud,” he said. “Salud and Salud 
again,” you salud, he thought. Salud, you salud. 

“Don Roberto,” Pablo said heavily. 

“Don Pablo,” Robert Jordan said. 

“You’re no professor,” Pablo said, “because you haven’t got a beard. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 213 

And also to do away with me you have to assassinate me and, for 
this, you have not cojones.” 

He was .looking at Robert Jordan with his mouth closed so that 
his lips made a tight line, like the mouth of a fish, Robert Jordan 
thought. With that head it is like one of those porcupine fish that 
swallow air and swell up after they are caught. 

“Salud, Pablo,” Robert Jordan said and raised the cup up and 
drank from it. “I am learning much from thee.” 

“I am teaching the professor,” Pablo nodded his head. “Come on, 
Don Roberto, we will be friends.” 

“We are friends already,” Robert Jordan said. 

“But now we will be good friends.” 

“We are good friends already.” 

“I’m going to get out of here,” Agustm said. “Truly, it is said 
that we must eat a ton of it in this life but I have twenty-five pounds 
of it stuck in each of my ears this minute.” 

“What is the matter, negro?” Pablo said to him. “Do you not like 
to see friendship between Don Roberto and me.?” 

“Watch your mouth about calling me negro!’ Agustm went over 
to him and stood in front of Pablo holding his hands low. 

“So you are called,” Pablo said. 

“Not by thee.” 

“Well, then, bianco ” 

“Nor that, either.” 

“What are you then, red?” 

“Yes. Red. Ro'-jo. With the red star of the army and in favor of 
the Republic. And my name is Agustin.” 

“What a patriotic man,” Pablo said. “Look, Ingles, what an ex- 
emplary patriot.” 

Agustin hit him hard across the mouth with his left hand, bring- 
ing it forward in a slapping, backhand sweep. Pablo sat there. The 
corners of his mouth were wine-stained and his expression did not 
change, but Robert Jordan watched his eyes narrow, as a cat’s pupils 
close to vertical slits in a strong light. 

“Nor this,” Pablo said. “Do not count on this, woman.” He turned 
his head toward Pilar. “I am not provoked.” 

Agustin hit him again.- This time he hit him on the mouth with 
his closed fist. Robert Jordan was holding his pistol in his hand under 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


214 

the table. He had shoved the safety catch off and he pushed Maria 
away with his left hand. She moved a little way and he pushed her 
hard in the ribs with his left hand again to make her get really 
away. She was gone now and he saw her from the corner of his eye, 
slipping along the side of the cave toward the fire and now Robert 
Jordan watched Pablo’s face. 

The round-headed man sat staring at Agustin from his flat little 
eyes. The pupils were even smaller now. He licked his lips then, put 
up an arm and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked 
down and saw the blood on his hand. He ran his tongue over his 
lips, then spat. 

“Nor that,” he said. “I am not a fool. I do not provoke.” 

“Cabron,” Agustin said. 

“You should know,” Pablo said. “You know the woman.” 

Agustin hit him again hard in the mouth and Pablo laughed at 
him, showing the yellow, bad, broken teeth in the reddened line of 
his mouth. 

“Leave it alone,” Pablo said and reached with a cup to scoop some 
wine from the bowl. “Nobody here has cojones to kill me and this 
of the hands is silly.” 

“Cobarde,” Agustin said. 

“Nor words either,” Pablo said and made a swishing noise rinsing 
the wine in his mouth. He spat on the floor. “I am far past words.” 

Agustin stood there looking down at him and cursed him, speak- 
ing slowly, clearly, bitterly and contemptuously and cursing as stead- 
ily as though he were dumping manure on a field, lifting it with a 
dung fork out of a wagon. 

“Nor of those,” Pablo said. “Leave it, Agustin. And do not hit 
me more. Thou wilt injure thy hands.” 

Agustin turned from him and went to the door. 

“Do not go out,” Pablo said. “It is snowing outside. Make thyself 
comfortable in here.” 

“And thou! Thou!” Agustin turned from the door and spoke to 
him, putting all his contempt in the single, “Tu." 

“Y’es, me,” said Pablo. “I will be alive when you are dead.” 

He dipped up another cup of wine and raised it to Robert Jordan. 
“To the professor,” he said. Then turned to Pilar. “To the Senora 
Commander.” Then toasted them all, “To all the illusioned ones.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 215 

Agustm walked over to him and, striking quickly with the side 
of his hand, knocked the cup out of his hand. 

“That is a waste,” Pablo said. “That is silly.” 

Agustin said something vile to him. 

“No,” Pablo said, dipping up another cup. “I am drunk, seest thou ? 
When I am not drunk I do not talk. You have never heard me talk 
much. But an intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to 
spend his time with fools.” 

“Go and obscenity in the milk of thy cowardice,” Pilar said to 
him. “I know too much about thee and thy cowardice.” 

“How the woman talks,” Pablo said. “I will be going out to see 
the horses.” 

“Go and befoul them,” Agustm said. “Is not that one of thy 
customs?” 

“No,” Pablo said and shook his head. He was taking down his big 
blanket cape from the wall and he looked at Agustin. “Thou,” he 
said, “and thy violence.” 

“What do you go to do with the horses?” Agustm said. 

“Look to them,” Pablo said. 

“Befoul them,” Agustin said. “Horse lover.” 

“I care for them very much,” Pablo said. “Even from behind they 
are handsomer and have more sense than these people. Divert your- 
selves,” he said and grinned. “Speak to them of the bridge, Ingles. 
Explain their duties in the attack. Tell them how to conduct the re- 
treat. Where will you take them, Ingles, after the bridge? Where 
will you take your patriots? I have thought of it all day while I have 
been drinking.” 

“What have you thought?” Agustin asked. 

“What have I thought?” Pablo said and moved his tongue around 
exploringly inside his lips. “Que te importa, what have I thought.” 

“Say it,” Agustin said to him. 

“Much,” Pablo said. He pulled the blanket coat over his head, 
the roundness of his head protruding now from the dirty yellow 
folds of the blanket. “I have thought much.” 

“What?” Agustin said. “What?” 

“I have thought you are a group of illusioned people,” Pablo said. 
“Led by a woman with her brains between her thighs and a for- 
eigner who comes to destroy you.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


216 

“Get out,” Pilar shouted at him. “Get out and fist yourself into 
the snow. Take your bad milk out of here, you horse exhausted 
marie on." 

“Thus one talks,” Agustin said admiringly, but absent-mindedly. 
He was worried. 

“I go,” said Pablo. “But I will be back shortly.” He lifted the 
blanket over the door of the cave and stepped out. Then from the 
door he called, “It’s still falling, Ingles." 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


The only noise in the cave now was the hissing from the hearth 
where snow was falling through the hole in the roof onto the coals 
of the fire. 

“Pilar,” Fernando said. “Is there more of the stew?” 

“Oh, shut up,” the woman said. But Maria took Fernando’s bowl 
over to the big pot set back from the edge of the fire and ladled 
into it. She brought- it over to the table and set it down and then 
patted Fernando on the shoulder as he bent to eat. She stood for a 
moment beside him, her hand on his shoulder. But Fernando did 
not look up. He was devoting himself to the stew. 

Agustin stood beside the fire. The others were seated. Pilar sat 
at the table opposite Robert Jordan. 

“Now, Ingles,’’ she said, “you have seen how he is.” 

“What will he do?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“Anything,” the woman looked down at the table. “Anything. He 
is capable of doing anything.” 

“Where is the automatic rifle?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“There in the corner wrapped in the blanket,” Primitivo said. “Do 
you want it?” 

“Later,” Robert Jordan said. “I wished to know where it is.” 

“It is there,” Primitivo said. “I brought it in and I have wrapped 
it in my blanket to keep the action dry. The pans are in that sack.” 

“He would not do that,” Pilar said. “He would not do anything 
with the mdquina.” 

“I thought you said he would do anything.” 

“He might,” she said. “But he has no practice with the mdquina. 
He could toss in a bomb. That is more his style.” 

“It is an idiocy and a weakness not to have killed him,” the gypsy 
said. He had taken no part in any of the talk all evening. “Last night 
Roberto should have killed him.” 

“Kill him,” Pilar said. Her big face was dark and tired looking. 
“I am for it now.” 


217 


2i8 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“I was against it,” Agustin said. He stood in front of the fire, 
his long arms hanging by his sides, his cheeks, stubble-shadowed be- 
low the cheekbones, hollow in the firelight. “Now I am for it,” he 
said. “He is poisonous now and he would hke to see us all de- 
stroyed.” 

“Let all speak,” Pilar said and her voice was tired. “Thou, 
Andres.?” 

“Matarlo,” the brother with the dark hair growing far down in 
the point on his forehead said and nodded his head. 

“Eladio.?” 

“Equally,” the other brother said. “To me he seems to constitute a 
great danger. And he serves for nothing.” 

“Primitivo.?” 

“Equally.” 

“Fernando.?” 

“Could we not hold him as a prisoner?” Fernando asked. 

“Who would look after a prisoner.?” Primitivo said. “It would 
take two men to look after a prisoner and what would we do with 
him in the end.?” 

“We could sell him to the fascists,” the gypsy said. 

“None of that,” Agustin said. “None of that filthiness.” 

“It was only an idea,” Rafael, the gypsy, said. “It seems to me that 
the facciosos would be happy to have him.” 

“Leave it alone,” Agustin said. “That is filthy.” 

“No filthier than Pablo,” the gypsy justified himself. 

“One filthiness does not justify another,” Agustin said. “Well, 
that is all. Except for the old man and the Ingles.” 

“They are not in it,” Pilar said. “He has not been their leader.” 

“One moment,” Fernando said. “I have not finished.” 

“Go ahead,” Pilar said. “Talk until he comes back. Talk until 
he rolls a hand grenade under that blanket and blows this aU up. 
Dynamite and all.” 

“I think that you exaggerate. Pilar,” Fernando said. “I do not think 
that he has any such conception.” 

“I do not think so either,” Agustin said. “Because that would 
blow the wine up too and he will be back in a little while to the 
wine.” 

“Why not turn him over to El Sordo and let El Sordo sell him 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 219 

to the fascists?” Rafael suggested. “You could; blind him and he 
would be easy to handle.” V', 

“Shut up,” Pilar said. “I feel something vef^ justified against 
thee too when thou talkest.” 

“The fascists would pay nothing for him anyway,” Primitivo 
said. “Such things have been tried by others and they pay nothing. 
They will shoot thee too.” 

“I believe that blinded he could be sold for something,” Rafael 
said. 

“Shut up,” Pilar said. “Speak of blinding again and you can go 
with the other.” 

“But, he, Pablo, blinded the guardia civil who was wounded,” the 
gypsy insisted. “You have forgotten that?” 

“Close thy mouth,” Pilar said to him. She was embarrassed be- 
fore Robert Jordan by this talk of blinding. 

“I have not been allowed to finish,” Fernando interrupted. 

“Finish,” Pilar told him. “Go on. Finish.” 

“Since it is impractical to hold Pablo as a prisoner,” Fernando 
commenced, “and since it is repugnant to offer him ” 

“Finish,” Pilar said. “For the love of God, finish.” 

“ — in any class of negotiation,” Fernando proceeded calmly, “I 
am agreed that it is perhaps best that he should be eliminated in 
order that the operations projected should be insured of the maxi- 
mum possibility of success.” 

Pilar looked at the little man, shook her head, bit her lips and 
said nothing. 

“That is my opinion,” Fernando said. “I believe we are justified in 
believing that he constitutes a danger to the Republic ” 

“Mother of God,” Pilar said. “Even here one man can make a 
bureaucracy with his mouth.” 

“Both from his own words and his recent actions,” Fernando 
continued. “And while he is deserving of gratitude for his actions in 
the early part of the movement and up until the most recent 
time ” 

Pilar had walked over to the fire. Now she came up to the table. 

“Fernando,” Pilar said quietly and handed a bowl to him. “Take 
this stew please in all formality and fill thy mouth with it and 
talk no more. We are in possession of thy opinion.” 


220 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“But, how then — ” Primitivo asked and paused without com- 
pleting the sentence. 

“Estoy listo,” Robert Jordan said. “I am ready to do it. Since you 
are all decided that it should be done it is a service that I can do.” 

What’s the matter .f* he thought. From Ustening to him I am be- 
ginning to talk like Fernando. That language must be infectious. 
French, the language of diplomacy. Spanish, the language of bu- 
reaucracy. 

“No,” Maria said. “No.” 

“This is none of thy business,” Pilar said to the girl “Keep thy 
mouth shut.” 

“I will do it tonight,” Robert Jordan said. 

He saw Pilar looking at him, her fingers on her lips. She was 
looking toward the door. 

The blanket fastened across the opening of the cave was lifted 
and Pablo put his head in. He grinned at them all, pushed under 
the blanket and then turned and fastened it again. He turned 
around and stood there, then pulled the blanket cape over his 
head and shook the snow from it. 

“You were speaking of me.?” he addressed them all. “I am in- 
terrupting?” 

No one answered him and he hung the cape on a peg in the 
wall and walked over to the table. 

“Que tal?” he asked and picked up his cup which had stood 
empty on the table and dipped it into the wine bowl. “There is no 
wine,” he said to Maria. “Go draw some from the skin.” 

Maria picked up the bowl and went over to the dusty, heavily 
distended, black-tarred wineskin that hung neck down from the 
wall and unscrewed the plug from one of the legs enough so that 
the wine squirted from the edge of the plug into the bowl. Pablo 
watched her kneeling, holding the bowl up and watched the light 
red wine flooding into the bowl so fast that it made a whirling 
motion as it filled it. 

“Be careful,” he said to her. “The wine’s below the chest now.” 

No one said anything. 

“I drank from the belly-button to the chest today,” Pablo said. 
“It’s a day’s work. What’s the matter with you all? Have you lost 
your tongues?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


221 


No one said anything at all. 

“Screw it up, Maria,” Pablo said. “Don’t let it spill.” 

“There’ll be plenty of wine,” Agustin said. “You’ll be able to 
be drunk.” 

“One has encountered his tongue,” Pablo said and nodded to 
Agustin. “Felicitations. I thought you’d been struck dumb.” 

“By what.?” Agustin asked. 

“By my entry.” 

“Thinkest thou that thy entry carries importance.?” 

He’s working himself up to it, maybe, Robert Jordan thought. 
Maybe Agustin is going to do it. He certainly hates him enough. I 
don’t hate him, he thought. No, I don’t hate him. He is disgusting 
but I do not hate him. Though that blinding business puts him in 
a special class. Still this is their war. But he is certainly nothing to 
have around for the next two days. I am going to keep away out 
of it, he thought. I made a fool of myself with him once tonight 
and I am perfectly willing to liquidate him. But I am not going 
to fool with him beforehand. And there are not going to be any 
shooting matches or monkey business in here with that dynamite 
around either. Pablo thought of that, of course. And did you think 
of it, he said to himself.? No, you did not and neither did Agustin. 
You deserve whatever happens to you, he thought 

“Agustin,” he said. 

“What.?” Agustin looked up sullenly and turned his head away 
from Pablo. 

“I wish to speak to thee,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Later.” 

“Now,” Robert Jordan said. “For favor” 

Robert Jordan had walked to the opening of the cave and Pablo 
followed him with his eyes. Agustin, tall and sunken cheeked, 
stood up and came over to him. He moved reluctandy and con- 
temptuously. 

“Thou hast forgotten what is in the sacks.?” Robert Jordan said 
to him, speaking so low that it could not he heard. 

“Milk!” Agustin said. “One becomes accustomed and one for- 
gets.” 

“I, too, forgot.” 

“Milk!” Agustin said. “Lechel What fools we are.” He swung 


222 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


back loose-jointedly to the table and sat down. “Have a drink, 
Paolo, old boy,” he said. “How were the horses .f*” 

“Very good,” Pablo said. “And it is snowing less.” 

“Do you think it will stop?” 

“Yes,” Pablo said. “It is thinning now and there are small, hard 
pellets. The wind will blow but the snow is going. The wmd has 
changed.” 

“Do you think it will clear tomorrow?” Robert Jordan asked 
him. 

“Yes,” Pablo said. “I beUeve it will be cold and clear. This wind 
is shifting.” 

Look at him, Robert Jordan thought. Now he is friendly. He 
has shifted like the wind. He has the face and the body of a pig 
and I know he is many dmes a murderer and yet he has the sensi- 
tivity of a good aneroid. Yes, he thought, and the pig is a very 
intelligent animal, too. Pablo has hatred for us, or perhaps it is only 
for our projects, and pushes his hatred with insults to the point 
where you are ready to do away with him and when he sees that 
this point has been reached he drops it and starts all new and 
clean again. 

“We will have good weather for it, Ingles,” Pablo said to Robert 
Jordan. 

“We,” Pilar said. “We?” 

“Yes, we,” Pablo grinned at her and drank some of the wine. 
“Why not? I thought it over while I was outside. Why should we 
not agree?” 

“In what?” the woman asked. “In what now?” 

“In all,” Pablo said to her. “In this of the bridge. I am with thee 
now.” 

“You are with us now?” Agustin said to him. “After what you 
have said?” 

“Yes,” Pablo told him. “With the change of the weather I am 
with thee.” 

Agustin shook his head. “The weather,” he said and shook his 
head again. “And after me hitting thee in the face?” 

“Yes,” Pablo grinned at him and ran his fingers over his hps. 
“After that too.” 

Robert Jordan was watching Pilar. She was looking at Pablo as 


FOR WHOM T iE BELL TOLLS 


223 

at some strange animal. On her face there was still a shadow of 
the" expression the mention of the blmding had put there. She 
shook tier head as though to be rid of that, then tossed it back. 
“Listen,” she said to Pablo. 

“Yes, woman.” 

“What passes with thee?” 

“Nothing,” Pablo said. “I have changed my opinion. Nothing 
more.” 

“You were listening at the door,” she told him. 

“Yes,” he said. “But I could hear nothing,” 

“You fear that we will kill thee.” 

“No,” he told her and looked at her over the wine cup. “I do 
not fear that. You know that.” 

“Well, what passes with thee?” Agustm said. “One moment 
you are, drunk and putting your mouth on all of us and disasso- 
ciating yourself from the work in hand and speaking of our death 
in a dirty manner and insulting the women and opposing that 
which should be done ” 

“I was drunk,” Pablo told him. 

“And now ” 

“I am not drunk,” Pablo said. “And I have changed my mind.” 

“Let the others trust thee. I do not,” Agustin said. 

“Trust me or not,” Pablo said. “But there is no one who can 
take thee to Credos as I can.” 

“Credos?” 

“It is the only place to go after this of the bridge.” 

Robert Jordan, looking at Pilar, raised his hand on the side away 
from Pablo and tapped his right ear questioningly. 

The woman nodded. Then nodded again. She said something 
to Maria and the girl came over to Robert Jordan’s side. 

“She says, ‘Of course he heard,’ ” Maria said in Robert Jordan’s 
ear. 

“Then Pablo,” Fernando said judicially. “Thou art with us now 
and in favor of this of the bridge?” 

“Yes, man,” Pablo said. He looked Fernando squarely in the eye 
and nodded. 

“In truth?” Primitivo asked. 

“De veras,” Pablo told him. 


FOR WHOM THI BELL TOLLS 


224 

“And you think it can be successful?” Fernando asked. “You now 
have confidence?” 

“Why not?” Pablo said. “Haven’t you confidence?” 

“Yes,” Fernando said. “But I always have confidence.” 

“I’m going to get out of here,” Agustin said. 

“It is cold outside,” Pablo told him in a friendly tone. 

“Maybe,” Agusdn said. “But I can’t stay any longer in this 
manicomio.” 

“Do not call this cave an insane asylum,” Fernando said. 

“A manicomio for criminal lunatics,” Agustin said. “And I’m 
getting out before I’m crazy, too.” 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 


It is like a merry-go-roun d, Robert Jordan thought. Not a merry- 
go-rbund that travels last, and with a calliope for music, and the 
children ride on cows with gilded horns, and there are rings to 
catch with sticks, and there is the blue, gas-flare-lit early dark of the 
Avenue du Maine, with fried fish sold from the next stall, and a 
wheel of fortune turning with the leather flaps slapping against 
the posts of the numbered compartments, and the packages of lump 
sugar piled in pyramids for prizes. No, it is not that kind of a merry- 
go-round; although the people are waiting, like the men in caps 
and the women in knitted sweaters, their heads bare in the gaslight 
and their hair shining, who stand in front of the wheel of fortune 
as it spins. Yes, those are the people. Bu t this is another wheel. , 
This is like a wheel that goes up and around. 

It has been around twice now. It is a vast wheel, set at an angle, 
and each time it goes around and then is hack to where it starts. 
One side is higher than the other and the sweep it makes lifts you 
back and down to where you started. There are no prizes either, 
he thought, and no one would choose to ride this wheel. You ride 
it each time and make the turn with no intention ever to have 
mounted. There is only one turn; one large, elliptical, rising and 
falling turn and you are back where you have started. We are back 
again now, he thought, and nothing is settled. 

It was warm in the cave and the wind had dropped outside. 
Now he was sitting at the table with his notebook in front of 
him figuring all the technical part of the bridge-blowing. He drew 
three sketches, figured his formulas, marked the method of blow- 
ing with two drawings as clearly as a kindergarten project so that 
Anselmo could complete it in case anything should happen to him- 
self during the process of the demolition. He finished these sketches 
and studied them. 

Maria sat beside him and looked over his shoulder while he 
worked. He was conscious of Pablo across the table and of the 
others talking and playing cards and he smelled the odors of the 

225 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


226 

cave which had changed now from those of the meal and the 
cooking to the fire smoke and man smell, the tobacco, red-wine 
and brassy, stale body smell, and when Maria, watching him fin- 
ishing a drawing, put her hand on the table he picked it up with 
his left hand and lifted it to his face and smelled the coarse soap 
and water freshness from her washing of the dishes. He laid her 
hand down without looking at her and went on working and he 
could not see her blush. She let her hand Ue there, close to his, but 
he did not lift it again. 

Now he had finished the demolition project and he took a new 
page of the notebook and commenced to write out the operation 
orders. He was thinking clearly and well on these and what he 
wrote pleased him. He wrote two pages in the notebook and read 
them over carefully. 

I think that is all, he said to himself. It is perfectly clear and I 
do not think there are any holes in it. The two posts will be de- 
stroyed and the bridge will be blown according to Golz’s orders 
and that is all of my responsibility. All of this business of Pablo 
is something with which I should never have been saddled and it 
will be solved one way or another. There will be Pablo or there 
will be no Pablo. I care nothing about it either way. But I am not 
going to get on that wheel again. Twice I have been on that wheel 
and twice it has gone around and come back to where it started 
and I am taking no more rides on it. 

He shut the notebook and looked up at Maria, “Hola, guapa,” 
he said to her. “Did you make anything out of all that.?” 

“No, Roberto,” the girl said and put her hand on his hand that 
still held the pencil. “Have you finished?” 

“Yes. Now it is all written out and ordered.” 

“What have you been doing, Ingles?" Pablo asked from across 
the table. His eyes were bleary again. 

Robert Jordan looked at him closely. Stay off that wheel, he said 
to himself. Don’t step on that wheel. I think it is going to start 
to swing again. 

“Working on the problem of the bridge,” he said civUly. 

“How is it?” asked Pablo. 

“Very good,” Robert Jordan said. “All very good.” 

“I have been working on the problem of the retreat,” Pablo 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS IITJ 

said and Robert Jordan looked at his drunken pig eyes and at the 
wine bowl. The wine bowl was nearly empty. 

Keep off the wheel, he told himself. He is drinking again. Sure. 
But don’t you get on that wheel now. Wasn’t Grant supposed to 
be drunk a good part of the time during the Civil War.? Certainly 
he was. I’ll bet Grant would be furious at the comparison if he 
could see Pablo. Grant was a cigar smoker, too. Well, he would 
have to see about getting Pablo a cigar. That was what that face 
really needed to complete it; a half chewed cigar. Where could he 
get Pablo a cigar.? 

“How does it go?” Robert Jordan asked politely. 

“Very well,” Pablo said and nodded his head heavily and ju- 
diciously. “Muy bien.” 

“You’ve thought up something.?” Agustin asked from where 
they were playing cards. 

“Yes,” Pablo said. “Various things.” 

“Where did you find them? In that bowl.?” Agustin de- 
manded. 

“Perhaps,” Pablo said. “Who knows? Maria, fill the bowl, will 
you, please?” 

“In the wineskin itself there should be some fine ideas,” Agus- 
dn turned back to the card game. “Why don’t you crawl in and 
look for them inside the skin?” 

“Nay,” said Pablo equably. “I search for them in the bowl.” 

He is not getting on the wheel either, Robert Jordan thought. 
It must be -evolving by itself. I suppose you cannot ride that wheel 
too long. That is probably quite a deadly wheel. I’m glad we are 
off of it. It was making me dizzy there a couple of times. But 
it is the thing that drunkards and those who are truly mean or 
cruel ride until they die. It goes around and up and the swing is 
never quite the same and then it comes around down. Let it swing, 
he thought. They will not get me onto it again. No sir, General 
Grant, 1 am off that wheel. 

Pilar was sitting by the fire, her chair turned so that she could 
see over the shoulders of the two card players who had their backs 
to her. She was watching the game. 

Here it is the shift from deadliness to normal family life that is 
the strangest, Robert Jordan thought. It is when the damned wheel 


228 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


comes down that it gets you. But I am ofl that wheel, he thought 
And nobody is going to get me onto it again. 

Two days ago I never knew that Pilar, Pablo nor the rest ex- 
isted, he thought. There was no such thing as Maria in the world. 
It was certainly a much simpler world. I had instructions from 
Golz that were perfectly clear and seemed perfectly possible to 
carry out although they presented certain difficuldes and involved 
certain consequences. After we blew the bridge I expected either 
to get back to the Hnes or not get back and if we got back I was 
going to ask for some time in Madrid. No one has any leave in 
this war but I am sure I could get two or three days in Madrid. 

In Madrid I wanted to buy some books, to go to the Florida Hotel 
and get a room and to have a hot bath, he thought. I was going 
to send Luis the porter out for a bottle of absinthe if he could lo- 
cate one at the Mantequerias Leonesas or at any of the places ofl 
the Gran Via and I was going to lie in bed and read after the 
bath and drink a couple of absinthes and then I was going to 
call up Gaylord’s and see if I could come up there and eat. 

He did not want to eat at the Gran Via because the food was 
no good really and you had to get there on time or whatever there 
was of it would be gone. Also there were too many newspaper 
men there he knew and he did not want to have to keep his mouth 
shut. He wanted to drink the absinthes and to feel like talking 
and then go up to Gaylord’s and eat with Karkov, where they had 
good food and real beer, and find out what was going on in the 
war. 

He had not liked Gaylord’s, the hotel in Madrid the Russians 
had taken over, when he first went there because it seemed 
too luxurious and the food was too good for a besieged city and 
the talk too cynical for a war. But I corrupted very easily, he 
thought. Why should you not have as good food as could be or- 
ganized when you came back from something like this.? And the 
talk that he had thought of as cynicism when he had first heard it 
had turned out to be much too true. This will be something to 
tell at Gaylord’s, he thought, when this is over. Yes, when this is 
over. 

Could you take Maria to Gaylord’s? No. You couldn’t. But you 
could leave her in the hotel and she could take a hot bath and be 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


229 

there when you came back from Gaylord’s. Yes, you could do that 
and after you had told Karkov about her, you could bring her later 
because they would be curious about her and want to see her. 

Maybe you wouldn’t go to Gaylord’s at all. You could eat early at 
the Gran Via and hurry back to the Florida. But you knew you 
would go to Gaylord’s because you wanted to see all that again; 
you wanted to eat that food again and you wanted to see all the 
comfort of it and the luxury of it after this. Then you would come 
back to the Florida and there Maria would be. Sure, she would be 
there after this was over. After this was over. Yes, after this was 
over. If he did this well he would rate a meal at Gaylord’s. 

Gaylord’s was the place where you met famous peasant and 
worker Spanish commanders who had sprung to arms from the 
people at the start of the war without any previous military train- 
ing and found that many of them spoke Russian. That had been the 
first big disillusion to him a few months back and he had started to 
be cynical to himself about it But when he realized how it happened 
it was all right. They were peasants and workers. They had been 
active in the 1934 revolution and had to flee the country when it 
failed and in Russia they had sent them to the mflitary academy 
and to the Lenin Institute the Comintern maintained so they 
would be ready to fight the next time and have the necessary 
military education to command. 

The Comintern had educated them there. In a revolution you 
could not admit to outsiders who helped you nor that any one knew 
more than he was supposed to know. He had learned that. If a 
thing was right fundamentally the lying was not supposed to mat- 
ter. There was a lot of lying though. He did not care for the lying at 
first. He hated it. Then later he had come to fike it. It was part 
of being an insider but it was a very corrupting business. 

It was at Gaylord’s that you learned that Valentin Gonzalez, 
called El Campesino or The Peasant, had never been a peasant but 
was an ex-sergeant in the Spanish Foreign Legion who had deserted 
and fought with Abd el Krim. That was all right, too. Why 
shouldn’t he be.? You had to have these peasant leaders quick' 
in this sort of war and a real peasant leader might be a litt' 
much like Pablo. You couldn’t wait for the real Peasant h' 
arrive and he might have too many peasant characteristir 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


230 

did. So you had to manufacture one. At that, from what he had 
seen of Campesino, with his black beard, his thick negroid Ups, and 
his feverish, staring eyes, he thought he might give almost as much 
trouble as a real peasant leader. The last time he had seen him he 
seemed to have gotten to believe his own publicity and think he was 
a peasant. He was a brave, tough man; no braver in the world. 
But God, how he talked too much. And when he was excited he 
would say anything no matter what the consequences of his in- 
discretion. And those consequences had been many already. He was 
a wonderful Brigade Commander though in a situation where it 
looked as though everything was lost. He never knew when every- 
thing was lost and if it was, he would fight out of it. 

At Gaylord’s, too, you met the simple stonemason, Enrique Lis- 
ter from Galicia, who now commanded a division and who talked 
Russian, too. And you met the cabinet worker, Juan Modesto 
from Andalucia who had just been given an Army Corps. He never 
learned his Russian in Puerto de Santa Maria although he might 
have if they had a Berlitz School there that the cabinet makers went 
to. He was the most trusted of the young soldiers by the Russians 
because he was a true party man, “a hundred per cent” they said, 
proud to use the Americanism. He was much more inteUigent 
than Lister or El Campesino. 

Sure, Gaylord’s was the place you needed to complete your edu- 
cation. It was there you learned how it was aU really done in- 
stead of how it was supposed to be done. He had only started 
his education, he thought. He wondered whether he would con- 
tinue with it long. Gaylord’s was good and sound and what he 
needed. At the start when he had still believed aU the nonsense 
it had come as a shock to him. But now he knew enough to accept 
the necessity for all the deception and what he learned at Gaylord’s 
only strengthened him in his belief in the things that he did hold 
to be true. He liked to know how it really was; not how it was 
supposed to be. T t^ere was always lying in a wa r. But the truth 
of Lister, Modesto, and El Campesino was much better than the 
’"’s and legends. Well, some day they would tell the truth to 
one and meantime he was glad there was a Gaylord’s for his 
ning of it. 

was where he would go in Madrid after he had bought 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


231 

the books and after he had lain in the hot bath and had a couple 
of drinks and had read awhile. But that was before Maria had 
come into all this that he had that plan. All right. They would 
have two rooms and she could do what she liked while he went 
up there and he’d come back from Gaylord’s to her. She had waited 
up in the hills all this time. She could wait a little while at the 
Hotel Florida. They would have three days in Madrid. Three days 
could he a long time. He’d take her to see the Marx Brothers at 
the Opera. That had been running for three months now and would 
certainly be good for three months more. She’d like the Marx 
Brothers at the Opera, he thought. She’d like that very much. 

It was a long way from Gaylord’s to this cave though. No, that 
was not the long way. The long way was going to be from this 
cave to Gaylord’s. Kashkin had taken him there first and he had 
not liked it. Kashkin had said he should meet Karkov because 
Karkov wanted to know Americans and because he was the great- 
est lover of Lope de Vega in the world and thought “Fuente Ove- 
juna” was the greatest play ever written. Maybe it was at that, but 
he, Robert Jordan, did not think so. 

He had liked Karkov but not the place. Karkov was the most intel- 
ligent man he had ever met. Wearing black riding boots, gray 
breeches, and a gray tunic, with tiny hands and feet, puffily fragile of 
face and body, with a -spitting way of talking through his bad teeth, 
he looked comic when Robert Jordan first saw him. But he had 
more brains and more inner dignity and outer insolence and humor 
than any man that he had ever known. 

Gaylord’s itself had seemed indecently luxurious and corrupt. But 
why shouldn’t the representatives of a power that governed a sixth 
of the world have a few comforts? Well, they had them and Rob- 
ert Jordan had at first been repelled by the whole business and 
then had accepted it and enjoyed it. Kashkin had made him out 
to be a hell of a fellow and Karkov had at first been insultingly 
polite and then,,^when Robert Jordan had not played at being a 
hero but had told a story that was really funny and obscenely dis- 
creditable to himself, Karkov had shifted from the politeness to a 
relieved rudeness and then to insolence and they had become 
friends. 

Kashkin had only been tolerated there. There was something 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


232 

wrong with Kashkin evidently and he was working it out in 
Spain. They would not tell him what it was but maybe they 
would now that he was dead. Anyway, he and Karkov had be- 
come friends and he had become friends too with the incredibly 
thin, drawn, dark, loving, nervous, deprived and unbitter woman 
with a lean, neglected body and dark, gray-streaked hair cut short 
who was Karkov’s wife and who served as an interpreter with 
the tank corps. He was a friend too of Karkov’s mistress, who had 
cat-eyes, reddish gold hair (sometimes more red; sometimes more 
gold, depending on the coiffeurs), a lazy sensual body (made to 
fit well against other bodies), a mouth made to fit other mouths, 
and a stupid, ambitious and utterly loyal mind. This mistress loved 
gossip and enjoyed a periodically controlled promiscuity which 
seemed only to amuse Karkov. Karkov was supposed to have an- 
other wife somewhere beside the tank-corps one, maybe two more, 
but nobody was very sure about that. Robert Jordan liked both 
the wife he knew and the mistress. He thought he would probably 
like the other wife, too, if he knew her, if there was one. Karkov 
had good taste in women. 

There were sentries with bayonets downstairs outside the porte- 
cochere at Gaylord’s and tonight it would be the pleasantest and 
most comfortable place in all of besieged Madrid. He would hke 
to be there tonight instead of here. Though it was all right here, 
now they had stopped that wheel. And the snow was stopping too. 

He would like to show his Maria to Karkov but he could not 
take her there unless he asked first and he would have to see how he 
was received after this trip. Golz would be there after this attack 
was over and if he had done well they would all know it from 
Golz. Golz would make fun of him, too, about Maria. After 
what he’d said to him about no girls. 

He reached over to the bowl in front of Pablo and dipped up 
a cup of wine. “With your permission,” he said. 

Pablo nodded. He is engaged in his military studies, I imagine, 
Robert Jordan thought. Not seeking the bubble reputation in the 
cannon’s mouth but seeking the solution to the problem in yonder 
bowl. But you know the bastard must be fairly able to have run 
this band successfully for as long as he did. Looking at Pablo he 
wondered what sort of guerilla leader he would have been in the 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


233 

American Civil War. There were lots o£ them, he thought. But 
we know very httle about them. Not the Quantrills, nor the Mos- 
bys, nor his own grandfather, but the littles ones, the bushwhack- 
ers. And about the drinking. Do you suppose Grant really was a 
drunk? His grandfather always claimed he was. That he was 
always a little drunk by four o’clock in the afternoon and that be- 
fore Vicksburg sometimes during the siege he was very drunk for 
a couple of days. But grandfather claimed that he functioned per- 
fectly normally no matter how much he drank except that some- 
times it was very hard to wake him. But if you could wake him 
he was normal. 

There wasn’t any Grant, nor any Sherman nor any Stonewall 
Jackson on either side so far in this war. No. Nor any Jeb Stuart 
either. Nor any Sheridan. It was overrun with McClellans though. 
The fascists had plenty of McClellans and we had at least three of 
them. 

He had certainly no t see n any military geniuses in this war. 
Not a one. Nor anything resembling one. Kleber, Lucasz, and 
Hans had done a fane job of their share in the defense of Madrid 
with the International Brigades and then the old bald, spectacled, 
conceited, stupid-as-an-owl, unintelligent-in-conversation, brave-and- 
as-dumb-as-a-bull, propaganda-built-up defender of Madrid, Miaja, 
had been so jealous of the publicity Kleber received that he had 
forced the Russians to relieve Kleber of his command and 
send him to Valencia. Kleber was a good soldier; but limited and 
he did talk too much for the job he had. Golz was a good general 
and a fine soldier but they always kept him in a subordinate posi- 
tion and never gave him a free hand. This attack was going to be 
his biggest show so far and Robert Jordan did not like too much 
what he had h eard about the attack. Then there was Gall, the Hun- 
ganan, who ought to be shot if you could believe half you heard 
at Gaylord’s. Make it if you can believe ten per cent of what you 
hear at Gaylord’s, Robert Jordan thought. 

He wished that he had seen the fighting on the plateau beyond 
Guadalajara when they beat the Italians. But he had been down 
in Estremadura then. Hans had told him about it one night in 
Gaylord’s two weeks ago and made him see it all. There was one 
moment when it was really lost when the Italians had broken the 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


234 

line near Trijueque and the Twelfth Brigade would have been 
cut otf if the Tonja-Brihuega road had been cut. “But kn owing 
they were Italians,” Hans had said, “we attempted a manceuvre 
which would have been unjustifiable against other troops. And it 
was successful.” 

Hans had shown it all to him on his maps of the battle. Hans 
carried them around with him in his map case all the time and 
still seemed marvelled and happy at the miracle of it. Hans was 
a fine soldier and a good companion. Lister’s and Modesto’s and 
Campesino’s Spanish troops had all fought well in that batde, 
Hans had told him, and that was to be credited to their leaders 
and to the discipline they enforced. But Lister and Campesino and 
Modesto had been told many of the moves they should make by 
their Russian military advisers. They were fike students flying a 
machine with dual controls which the pilot could take over when- 
ever they made a mistake. Well, this year would show how much 
and how well they learned. After a while there would not be dual 
controls and then we would see how well they handled divisions 
and army corps alone. 

They were Communists and they were disciplinarians. The disci- 
pline that they would enforce would make good troops. Lister was 
murderous in discipline. He was a true fanatic and he had the 
complete Spanish lack of respect for life. In few armies since the 
Tartar’s first invasion of the West were men executed summarily for 
as little reason as they were under his command. But he knew 
how to forge a division into a fighting unit. It is one thing to hold 
positions. It is another to attack positions and take them and it is 
something very different to manoeuvre an army in the field, Robert 
Jordan thought as he sat there at the table. From what I have seen 
of him, I wonder how Lister will be at that once the dual controls 
are gone? But maybe they won’t go, he thought. I wonder if they 
will go? Or whether they will strengthen? I wonder what the 
Russian stand is on the whole business? Gaylord’s is the place, he 
thought. There is much that I need to know now that I can learn 
only at Gaylord’s. 

At one time he had thought Gaylord’s had been bad for him. 
It was the opposite of the puritanical, religious communism of 
Velazquez 63, the Madrid palace that had been turned into the 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


235 

International Brigade headquarters in the capital. At Velazquez 63 
it was like being a member of a religious order — and Gaylord’s was 
a long way away from the feeling you had at the headquarters 
of the Fifth Regiment before it had been broken up into the brig- 
ades of the new army. ^ 

At either of those places you felt that you were taking part in ai 
crusade. That was the only word for it although it was a word 
that had been so worn and abused that it no longer gave its true 
meaning. You felt, in spite of all bureaucracy and inetiiciency and 
party strife something that was like the feeling you expected to have 
and did not have when you made your first communion. It was a 
feeling of consecration to a duty toward all of the oppressed of the 
world which would be as difficult and embarrassing to speak about 
as religious experience and yet it was authentic as the feeling 
you had when you heard Bach, or stood in Chartres Cathedral 
or the Cathedral at Leon and saw the light coming through the 
great windows; or when you saw Mantegna and Greco and 
Brueghel in the Prado. It gave you a part in something that you 
could believe in wholly and completely and in which you felt 
an absolute brotherhood with the others who were engaged in it. 
It was something that you had never known before but that you 
had experienced now and you gave such importance to it and the 
reasons for it that your own death seemed of complete unimpor- 
tance; only a thing to be avoided because it would interfere with 
the performance of your duty. But the best thing was that there 
was something you could do about this feeling and this necessity 
too. You could fight. 

So you fought, he thought. And in the fighting soon there was 
no purity of feeling for those who survived the fighting and were 
good at it. Not after the first six months. 

The defense of a position or of a city is a part of war in which 
you can feel that first sort of feeling. The fighting in the Sierras had 
been that way. They had fought there with the true comradeship of 
the revolution. Up there when there had been the first necessity for 
the enforcement of discipline he had approved and understood it. 
Under the shelling men had been cowards and had run. He had 
seen them shot and left to swell beside the road, nobody bothering 
to do more than strip them of their cartridges and their valuables. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


236 

Taking their cartridges, their boots and their leather coats was right. 
Taking the valuables was only realistic. It only kept the anarchists 
from getting them. 

It_Jiad seemed just and right and necessary that the men who 
ran were shot. There was nothing wrong about it. Their running 
was a selfishness. The fascists had attacked and we had stopped 
them on that slope in the gray rocks, the scrub pines and the gorse 
of the Guadarrama hillsides. We had held along the road under 
the bombing from the planes and the shelling when they brought 
their artillery up and those who were left at the end of that day 
had counterattacked and driven them back. Later, when they had 
tried to come down on the left, sifting down between the rocks 
and through the trees, we had held out in the Sanitarium firing 
from the windows and the roof although they had passed it on 
both sides, and we lived through knowing what it was to be sur- 
rpunded until the counterattack had cleared them back behind 
/the road again. 

In all that, in the fear that dries your mouth and your throat, 
in the smashed plaster dust and the sudden panic of a wall fall- 
ing, collapsing in the flash and roar of a shellburst, clearing the 
gun, dragging those away who had been serving it, lying face 
downward and covered with rubble, your head behind the shield 
working on a stoppage, getting the broken case out, straighten- 
ing the belt again, you now lying straight behind the shield, the 
gun searching the roadside again; you did the thing there was to 
do and knew that you were right. You learned the dry-mouthed, 
fear-purged, purging ecstasy of batde and you fought that summer 
and that fall for all the poor in the world, against aU tyranny, for 
all the things that you believed and for the new world you had 
been educated into. You learned that fall, he thought, how to en- 
dure and how to ignore suffering in the long time of cold and wet- 
ness, of mud and of digging and fortifying. And the feeling of the 
summer and the fall was buried deep under tiredness, sleepiness, 
and nervousness and discomfort. But it was still there and all that 
you went through only served to validate it. It was in those days, 
he thought, that you had a deep and sound and selfless pride— that 
would have made you a bloody bore at Gaylord’s, he thought sud- 
denly. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


237 

No, you would not have been so good at Gaylord’s then, he 
thought. You were too naive. You were in a sort of state of grace. 
But Gaylord’s might not have been the way it was now at that 
time, either. No, as a matter of fact, it was not that way, he told 
himself. It was not that way at all. There was not any Gaylord’s 
then. 

Karkov had told him about those days. At that time what Rus- 
sians there were had lived at the Palace Hotel. Robert Jordan had 
known none of them then. That was before the first partizan groups 
had been formed; before he had met Kashkin or any of the 
others. Kashkin had been in the north at Irun, at San Sebastian 
and in the abortive fighting toward Vitoria. He had not arrived 
in Madrid until January and while Robert Jordan had fought at 
Carabanchel and at Usera in those three days when they stopped 
the right wing of the fascist attack on Madrid and drove the 
Moors and the Tercio back from house to house to clear that bat- 
tered suburb on the edge of the gray, sun-baked plateau and es- 
tablish a line of defense along the heights that would protect that 
corner of the city, Karkov had been in Madrid. 

Karkov was not cynical about those times either when he talked. 
Those were the days they all shared when everything looked lost and 
each man retained now, better than any citation or decoration, the 
knowledge of just how he would act when everything looked lost. 
The government had abandoned the city, taking all the motor 
cars from the ministry of war in their flight and old Miaja had to 
ride down to inspect his defensive positions on a bicycle. Robert 
Jordan did not believe that one. He could not see Miaja on a bicycle 
even in his most patriotic imagination, but Karkov said it was true. 
But then he had written it for Russian papers so he probably wanted 
to believe it was true after writing it. 

But there was another story that Karkov had not written. He 
had three wounded Russians in the Palace Hotel for whom he 
was responsible. They were two tank drivers and a flyer who were 
too bad to be moved, and since, at that time, it was of the greatest 
importance that there should be no evidence of any Russian inter- 
vention to justify an open intervention by the fascists, it was 
Karkov’s responsibility that these wounded should not fall into the 
hands of the fascists in case the city should be abandoned. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


238 

In the event the city should be abandoned, Karkov was to poison 
them to destroy all evidence of their identity before leaving the 
Palace Hotel. No one could prove from the bodies of three wounded 
men, one with three bullet wounds in his abdomen, one with his 
jaw shot away and his vocal cords exposed, one with his femur 
smashed to bits by a bullet and his hands and face so badly burned 
that his face was just an eyelashless, eyebrowless, hairless blister that 
they were Russians. No one could tell from the bodies of these 
wounded men he would leave in beds at the Palace, that they were 
Russians. Nothing proved a naked dead man was a Russian. Your 
nationality and your politics did not show when you were dead. 

Robert Jordan had asked Karkov how he felt about the necessity 
of performing this act and Karkov had said that he had not looked 
forward to it. “How were you going to do it.?” Robert Jordan had 
asked him and had added, “You know it isn’t so simple just sud- 
denly to poison people.” And Karkov had said, “Oh, yes, it is 
when you carry it always for your own use.” Then he had opened 
his cigarette case and showed Robert Jordan what he carried in 
one side of it. 

“But the first thing anybody would do if they took you prisoner 
would be to take your cigarette case,” Robert Jordan had objected. 
“They would have your hands up.” 

“But I have a little more here,” Karkov had grinned and showed 
the lapel of his jacket. “You simply put the lapel in your mouth 
like this and bite it and swallow.” 

“That’s much better,” Robert Jordan had said. “Tell me, does 
it smell like bitter almonds the way it always does in detective 
stories?” 

“I don’t know,” Karkov said delightedly. “I have never smelled it. 
Should we break a little tube and smell it?” 

“Better keep it.” 

“Yes,” Karkov said and put the cigarette case away. “I am not a 
defeatist, you understand, but it is always possible that such serious 
times might come again and you cannot get this anywhere. Have 
you seen the communique from the Cordoba front? It is very beau- 
tiful. It is now my favorite among all the communiques.” 

“What did it say?” Robert Jordan had come to Madrid from the 
Cordoban Front and he had the sudden stiffening that comes when 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 239 

some one jokes about a thing which you yourself may joke about 
but which they may not. “Tell me?” 

“Nuestra gloriosa tropa siga avanzando sin perder ni una sola 
palma de terreno,’’ Karkov said in his strange Spanish. 

“It didn’t really say that,” Robert Jordan doubted. 

“Our glorious troops continue to advance without losing a foot 
of ground,” Karkov repeated in English. “It is in the communique 
I will find it for you.” 

You could remember the men you knew who died in the fighting 
around Pozoblanco; but it was a joke at Gaylord’s. 

So that was the way it was at Gaylord’s now. Still there had not 
always been Gaylord’s and if the situation was now one which 
produced such a thing as Gaylord’s out of the survivors of the early 
days, he was glad to see Gaylord’s and to know about it. You are a 
long way from how you felt in the Sierra and at Carabanchel and 
at Usera, he thought. You corrupt very easily, he thought. But was 
it corruption or was it merely that you lost the naivete that you 
started with? Would it not be the same in anything? Who else kept 
that first chastity of mind about their work that young doctors, 
young priests, and young soldiers usually started with? The priests 
certainly kept it, or they got out. I suppose the Nazis keep it, he 
thought, and the Communists who have a severe enough self-dis- 
cipline. But look at Karkov. 

He never tired of considering the case of Karkov. The last time 
he had been at Gaylord’s Karkov had been wonderful about a cer- 
tain British economist who had spent much time in Spain. Rob- 
ert Jordan had read this man’s writing for years and he had 
always respected him without knowing anything about him. He 
had not cared very much for what this man had written about 
Spain. It was too clear and simple and too open and shut and many 
of the statistics he knew were faked by wishful thinking. But he 
thought you rarely cared for journalism written about a country 
you really knew about and he respected the man for his intentions. 

Then he had seen the man, finally, on the afternoon when they 
had attacked at Carabanchel. They were sitting in the lee of the 
bull ring and there was shooting down the two streets and every 
one was nervous waiting for the attack. A tank had been promised 
and it had not come up and Montero was sitting with his head in 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


240 

his hand saying, “The tank has not come. The tank has not come.” 

It was a cold day and the yellow dust was blowing down the 
street and Montero had been hit in the left arm and the arm was 
stiffening. “We have to have a tank,” he said. “We must wait for 
the tank, but we cannot wait.” His wound was making him sound 
petulant. 

Robert Jordan had gone back to look for the tank which Montero 
said he thought might have stopped behind the apartment building 
on the corner of the tram-line. It was there all right. But it was not 
a tank. Spaniards called anything a tank in those days. It was an 
old armoured car. The driver did not want to leave the angle of 
the apartment house and bring it up to the bull ring. He was stand- 
ing behind it with his arms folded against the metal of the car and 
his head in the leather-padded helmet on his arms. He shook his 
head when Robert Jordan spoke to him and kept it pressed against 
his arms. Then he turned his head without looking at Robert 
Jordan. 

“I have no orders to go there,” he said sullenly. 

Robert Jordan had taken his pistol out of the holster and pushed 
the muzzle of the pistol against the leather coat of the armoured 
car driver. 

“Here are your orders,” he had told him. The man shook his 
head with the big-padded-leather helmet like a football player’s on 
it and said, “There is no ammunition for the machine-gun.” 

“We have ammunition at the bull ring,” Robert Jordan had told 
him. “Come on, let’s go, We will fill the belts there. Come on.” 

“There is no one to work the gun,” the driver said. 

“Where is he? Where is your mate?” 

“Dead,” the driver had said. “Inside there.” 

“Get him out,” Robert Jordan had said. “Get him out of there.” 

“I do not like to touch him,” the driver had said. “And he is bent 
over between the gun and the wheel and I cannot get past him.” 

“Come on,” Robert Jordan had said. “We will get him out 
together.” 

He had banged his head as he climbed into the armoured car and 
it had made a small cut over his eyebrow that bled down onto his 
face. The dead man was heavy and so stiff you could not bend him 
and he had to hammer at his head to get it out from where it had 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


24. 

wedged, face-down, between his seat and the wheel. Finally he got 
it up by pushing with his knee up under the dead man’s head and 
then, pulling back on the man’s waist now that the head was loose, 
he pulled the dead man out himself toward the door. 

“Give me a hand with him,” he had said to the driver. 

“I do not want to touch him,” the driver had said and Robert 
Jordan had seen that he was crying. The tears ran straight down 
on each side of his nose on the powder-grimed slope of his face and 
his nose was running, too. 

Standing beside the door he had swung the dead man out and 
the dead man fell onto the sidewalk beside the tram-line still in 
that hunched-over, doubled-up position. He lay there, his face waxy 
gray against the cement sidewalk, his hands bent under him as 
they had been in the car. 

“Get in, God damn it,” Robert Jordan had said, motioning now 
with his pistol to the driver. “Get in there now.” 

Just then he had seen this man who had come out from the lee 
of the apartment house building. He had on a long overcoat and 
he was bareheaded and his hair was gray, his cheekbones broad 
and his eyes were deep and set close together. He had a package of 
Chesterfields in his hand and he took one out and handed it toward 
Robert Jordan who was pushing the driver into the armoured car 
with his pistol. 

“Just a minute. Comrade,” he had said to Robert Jordan in 
Spanish. “Can you explain to me something about the fighting.?” 

Robert Jordan took the cigarette and put it in the breast pocket 
of his blue mechanic jumper. He had recognized this comrade 
from his pictures. It was the British economist. 

“Go muck yourself,” he said in English and then, in Spanish, 
to the armoured car driver. “Down there. The bull ring. See.?” And 
he had pulled the heavy side door to with a slam and locked it 
and they had started down that long slope in the car and the bul- 
lets had commenced to hit against the car, sounding like pebbles 
tossed against an iron boiler. Then when the machine-gun opened 
on them, they were like sharp hammer tappings. They had pulled up 
behind the shelter of the bull ring with the last October posters still 
pasted up beside the ticket window and the ammunition boxes 
knocked open and the comrades with the rifles, the grenades on their 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


belts and in their pockets, waiting there in the lee and Montero 
had said, “Good. Here is the tank. Now we can attack.” 

Later that night when they had the last houses on the hill, he lay 
comfortable behind a brick wall with a hole knocked in the bricks 
for a loophole and looked across the beautiful level field of fire 
they had between them and the ridge the fascists had retired to 
and thought, with a comfort that was almost voluptuous, of the 
rise of the hill with the smashed villa that protected the left flank. 
He had lain in a pile of straw in his sweat-soaked clothes and 
wound a blanket around him while he dried. Lying there he thought 
of the economist and laughed, and then felt sorry he had been 
rude. But at the moment, when the man had handed him the 
cigarette, pushing it out almost like offering a tip for information, 
the combatant’s hatred for the noncombatant had been too much 
for him. 

Now he remembered Gaylord’s and Karkov speaking of this 
same man. “So it was there you met him,” Karkov had said. “I did 
not get farther than the Puente de Toledo myself on that day. He 
was very far toward the front. That was the last day of his bravery 
I believe. He left Madrid the next day. Toledo was where he was 
the bravest, I believe. At Toledo he was enormous. He was one of 
the architects of our capture of the Alcazar. You should have seen 
him at Toledo. I believe it was largely through his efforts and his 
advice that our siege was successful. That was the silliest part of 
the war. It reached an ultimate in silliness but teU me, what is 
thought of him in America.?” 

“In America,” Robert Jordan said, “he is supposed to be very 
close to Moscow.” 

“He is not,” said Karkov. “But he has a wonderful face and his 
face and his manners are very successful. Now with my face I could 
do nothing. What little I have accomplished was all done in spite 
of my face which does not either inspire people nor move them 
to love me and to trust me. But this man Mitchell has a face he 
makes his fortune with. It is the face of a conspirator. All who have 
read of conspirators in hooks trust him instantly. Also he has the 
true manner of the conspirator. Any one seeing him enter a room 
knows that he is instantly in the presence of a conspirator of the 
first mark. All of your rich compatriots who wish sentimentally to 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


243 

aid the Soviet Union as they believe or to insure themselves a little 
against any eventual success of the party see instantly in the face of 
this man, and in his manner that he can be none other than a 
trusted agent of the Comintern.” 

“Has he no connections in Moscow?” 

“None. Listen, Comrade Jordan. Do you know about the two 
kinds of fools?” 

“Plain and damn?” 

“No. The two kinds of fools we have In Russia,” Karkov grinned 
and began. “First there is the winter fool. The winter fool comes 
to the door of your house and he knocks loudly. You go to the door 
and you see him there and you have never seen him before. He is 
an impressive sight. He is a very big man and he has on high boots 
and a fur coat and a fur hat and he is all covered with snow. First 
he stamps his boots and snow falls from them. Then he takes off 
his fur coat and shakes it and more snow falls. Then he takes off 
his fur hat and knocks it against the door. More snow falls from 
his fur hat. Then he stamps his boots again and advances into the 
room. Then you look at him and you see he is a fool. That is the 
winter fool. 

“Now in the summer you see a fool going down the street and 
he is waving his arms and jerking his head from side to side and 
everybody from two hundred yards away can tell he is a fool. That 
is a summer fool. This economist is a winter fool.” 

“But why do people trust him here?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“His face,” Karkov said. “His beautiful gueule de conspirateur. 
And his invaluable trick of just having come from sotnewhere else 
where he is very trusted and important. Of course,” he smiled, 
“he must travel very much to keep the trick working. You know 
the Spanish are very strange,” Karkov went on. “This government 
has had much money. Much gold. They will give nothing to their 
friends. You are a friend. All right. You will do it for nothing and 
should not be rewarded. But to people representing an important 
firm or a country which is not friendly but must be influenced— 
to such people they give much. It is very interesting when you fol- 
low it closely.” 

“I do not like it. Also that money belongs to the Spanish 
workers.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


244 

“You are not supposed to like things. Only to understand,” 
Karkov had told him. “I teach you a Utde each time I see you and 
eventually you will acquire an education. It would be very interest- 
ing for a professor to be educated.” 

“I don’t know whether I’ll be able to be a professor when I 
get back. They will probably run me out as a red.” 

“Well, perhaps you will be able to come to the Soviet Union 
and continue your studies there. That might be the best thing 
for you to do.” 

“But Spanish is my field.” 

“There are many countries where Spanish is spoken,” Karkov 
had said. “They cannot all be as difficult to do anything with as 
Spain is. Then you must remember that you have not been a 
professor now for almost nine months. In nine months you may 
have learned a new trade. How much dialectics have you read?” 

“I have read the Handbook of Marxism that Emil Burns edited. 
That is all.” 

“If you have read it aU that is quite a little. There are fifteen 
hundred pages and you could spend some time on each page. 
But there are some other things you should read.” 

“There is no time to read now.” 

“I know,” Karkov had said. “I mean eventually. There are 
many things to read which will make you understand some of 
these things that happen. But out of this will come a book which 
is very necessary; which will explain many things which it is 
necessary to know. Perhaps I will write in I hope that it will 
be me who will write it.” 

“I don’t know who could write it better.” 

“Do not flatter,” Karkov had said. “I am a journalist. But 
like all journalists I wish to write literature. Just now, I am very 
busy on a study of Calvo Sotelo. He was a very good fascist; a 
true Spanish fascist. Franco and these other people are not. I 
have been studying all of Sotelo’s writings and speeches. He was 
very intelligent and it was very intelligent that he was killed.” 

“I thought that you did not believe in political assassination.” 

“It is practised very extensively,” Karkov said. “Very, very exten- 
sively.” 

“But ” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


245 

“We do not believe in acts of terrorism by individuals,” Karkov 
had smiled. “Not of course by crin:'inal terrorist and counter- 
revolutionary organizations. We detest with horror the duplicity 
and villainy of the murderous hyenas of Bukharinite wreckers 
and such dregs of humanity as Zinoviev, Kamenev, Rykov and 
their henchmen. We hate and loathe these veritable fiends,” he 
smiled again. “But I still believe that political assassination can 
be said to be practised very extensively.” 

“You mean ” 

“I mean nothing. But certainly we execute and destroy such 
veritable fiends and dregs of humanity and the treacherous dogs 
of generals and the revolting spectacle of admirals unfaithful to 
their trust. These are destroyed. They are not assassinated. You 
see the difference.?” 

“I see,” Robert Jordan had said. 

“And because I make jokes sometime: and you know how 
dangerous it is to make jokes even in joke.? Good. Because I 
make jokes, do not think that the Spanish people will not live to 
regret that they have not shot certain generals that even now hold 
commands. I do not like the shootings, you understand.” 

“I don’t mind them,” Robert Jordan said. “I do not like them 
but I do not mind them any more.” 

“I know that,” Karkov had said. “I have been told that.” 

“Is it important.?” Robert Jordan said. “I was only trying to 
'be truthful about it.” 

“It is regretful,” Karkov had said. “But it is one of the things 
that makes people be treated as reliable who would ordinarily 
have to spend much more time before attaining that category.” 

“Am I supposed to be reliable.?” 

“In your work you are supposed to be very reliable. I must talk 
to you sometime to see how you are in your mind. It is regret- 
able that we never speak seriously.” 

“My mind is in suspension until we win the war,” Robert 
Jor^n had Siid. 

“Then perhaps you will not need it for a long time. But you 
should be careful to exercise it a little.” 

“I read Mundo Obrero” Robert Jordan had told him and 
Karkov had said, “All right. Good. I can take a joke too. But 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


246 

there are very intelligent things in Mundo Ohrero. The only in- 
telligent things written or this war.” 

“Yes,” Robert Jordan had said. “1 agree with you. But to get a 
full picture of what is happening you cannot read only the party 
organ.” 

“No,” Karkov had said. “But you will not find any such picture 
if you read twenty papers and then, if you had it, I do not know 
what you would do with it. I have such a picture almost con- 
stantly and what I do is try to forget it.” 

“You think it is that had.i*” 

“It is better now than it was. We are getting rid of some of 
the worst. But it is very rotten. We are building a huge army 
now and some of the elements, those of Modesto, of El Campesino, 
of Lister and of Duran, are reliable. They are more than reliable. 
They are magnificent. You will see that. Also we still have the 
Brigades although their role is changing. But an army that is made 
up of good and bad elements cannot win a war. All must be 
brought to a certain level of political development; all must know 
why they are fighting, and its importance. All must believe in the 
fight they are to make and all must accept discipline. We are 
making a huge conscript army without the time to implant the 
discipline that a conscript army must have, to behave properly 
under fire. We call it a people’s army but it will not have the 
assets of a true people’s army and it will not have the iron 
discipline that a conscript army needs. You will see. It is a very 
dangerous procedure.” 

“You are not very cheerful today.” 

“No,” Karkov had said. “I have just come back from Valencia 
where I have seen many people. No one comes back very cheerful 
from Valencia. In Madrid you feel good and clean and with no 
possibility of anything but winning. Valencia is something else. 
The cowards who fled from Madrid still govern there. They have 
settled happily into the sloth and bureaucracy of governing. They 
have only contempt for those of Madrid. Their obsession now is 
the weakening of the commissariat for war. And Barcelona. You 
should see Barcelona.” 

“How is it.?” 

“It is all stiU comic opera. First it was the paradise of the crack- 


FOB. WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


247 

pots and the romantic revolutionists. Now it is the paradise of the 
fake soldier. Ihe soldiers who like to wear uniforms, who like 
to strut and swagger and wear red-and-black scarves. Who Uke 
everything about war except to fight. Valencia makes you sick 
and Barcelona makes you laugh.” 

“What about the P. O. U. M. putsch?” 

“The P. O. U. M. was never serious. It was a heresy of crack- 
pots and wild men and it was really just an infantiUsm. There 
were some honest misguided people. There was one fairly good 
brain and there was a little fascist money. Not much. The poor 
P. O. U. M. They were very silly people.” 

“But were many killed in the putsch?” 

“Not so many as were shot afterwards or will be shot. The 
P. O. U. M. It is like the name. Not serious. They should have 
called it the M. U. M. P. S. or the M. E. A. S. L. E. S. But no. 
The Measles is much more dangerous. It can affect both sight and 
hearing. But they made one plot you know to kill me, to kill 
Walter, to kill Modesto and to kill Prieto. You see how badly 
mixed up they were? We are not at all alike. Poor P. O. U. M. 
They never did kill anybody. Not at the front nor anywhere else. 
A few in Barcelona, yes.” 

“Were you there?” 

“Yes. I have sent a cable describing the wickedness of that 
infamous organization of Trotskyite murderers and their fascist 
machinations all beneath contempt but, between us, it is not very 
serious, the P. O. U. M. Nin was their only man. We had him 
but he escaped from our hands.” 

“Where is he now?” 

“In Paris. We say he is in Paris. He was a very pleasant fellow 
but with bad political aberrations.” 

“But they were in communication with the fascists, weren’t 
they?” 

“Who is not?” 

“We are not.” 

“Who knows? I hope we are not. You go often behind their 
hnes,” he grinned. “But the brother of one of the secretaries of 
the Republican Embassy at Paris made a trip to St. Jean de Luz 
last week to mejet people from Burgos.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


248 

“I like it better at the front,” Robert Jordan had said. “The 
closer to the front the better the people.” 

“How do you like it behind the fascist Hnes?” 

“Very much. We have fine people there.” 

“Well, you see they must have their fine people behind our 
lines the same way. We find them and shoot them and they find 
ours and shoot them. When you are in their country you must 
always think of how many people they must send over to us.” 

“I have thought about them.” 

“Well,” Karkov had said. “You have probably enough to think 
about for today, so drink that beer that is left in the pitcher and 

run along now because I have to go upstairs to see people. Up- 

stairs people. Come again to see me soon.” 

Yes, Robert Jordan thought. You learned a lot at Gaylord’s. 
Karkov had read the one and only book he had pubUshed. The 
book had not been a success. It was only two hundred pages long 
and he doubted if two thousand people had ever read it. He had 

put in it what he had discovered about Spain in ten years of 

travelling in it, on foot, in third-class carriages, by bus, on horse- 
and mule-back and in trucks. He knew the Basque country, 
Navarre, Aragon, Galicia, the two Castiles and Estremadura well. 
There had been such good books written by Borrow and Ford 
and the rest that he had been able to add very Uttle. But Karkov 
said it was a good book. 

“It is why I bother with you,” he had said. “I think you write 
absolutely truly and that is very rare. So I would hke you to 
^know some things.” 

All right. He would write a book when he got through with 
this. But only about the things he knew, truly, and about what he 
knew. But I will have to be a much better writer than I am now 
to handle them, he thought. The things he had come to know in 
this war were not so simple. 


V 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


“What do you do sitting there?” Maria asked him. She was 
standing close beside him and he turned his head and smiled 
at her. 

“Nothing,” he said. “I have been thinking.” 

“What of? The bridge?” 

“No. The bridge is terminated. Of thee and of a hotel in Madrid 
where I know some Russians, and of a book I will write some 
time.” 

“Are there many Russians in Madrid?” 

“No. Very few.” 

“But in the fascist periodicals it says there are hundreds of 
thousands.” 

“Those are lies. There are very few.” 

“Do you like the Russians? The one who was here was a 
Russian.” 

“Did you like him?” 

“Yes. I was sick then but I thought he was very beautiful and 
very brave.” 

“What nonsense, beautiful,” Pilar said. “His nose was flat as 
my hand and he had cheekbones as wide as a sheep’s buttocks.” 

“He was a good friend and comrade of mine,” Robert Jordan 
said to Maria. “I cared for him very much.” 

“Sure,” Pilar said. “But you shot him.” 

When she said this the card players looked up from the table 
and Pablo stared at Robert Jordan. Nobody said anything and 
then the gypsy, Rafael, asked, “Is it true, Roberto?” 

“Yes,” Robert Jordan said. He wished Pilar had not brought 
this up and he wished he had not told it at El Sordo’s. “At his 
request. He was badly wounded.” 

“Que cosa mas rara,” the gypsy said. “All the time he was 
with us he talked of such a possibility. I don’t know how many 
times I have promised him to perform such an act. What a rare 
thing,” he said again and shook his head. 

249 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


250 

“He was a very rare man,” Primitivo said. “Very singular.” 

“Look,” Andres, one of the brothers, said. “You who are Pro- 
fessor and all. Do you believe in the possibUity of a man seeing 
ahead what is to happen to him.?” 

“I believe he cannot see it,” Robert Jordan said. Pablo was star- 
ing at him curiously and Pilar was watching him with no expres- 
sion on her face. “In the case of this Russian comrade he was 
very nervous from being too much time at the front. He had 
fought at Irun which, you know, was bad. Very bad. He had 
fought later in the north. And since the first groups who did this 
work behind the lines were formed he had worked here, in Extre- 
madura and in Andalucia. I think he was very tired and nervous 
and he imagined ugly things.” 

“He would undoubtedly have seen many evil things,” Fernando 
said. 

“Like all the world,” Andres said. “But listen to me, IngUs. 
Do you think there is such a thing as a man knowing in advance 
what will befall him.?” 

“No,” Robert Jordan said. “That is ignorance and superstition.” 

“Go on,” Pilar said. “Let us hear the viewpoint of the pro- 
fessor.” She spoke as though she were talking to a precocious 
child. 

“I believe that fear produces evil visions,” Robert Jordan said. 
“Seeing bad signs ” 

“Such as the airplanes today,” Primitivo said. 

“Such as thy arrival,” Pablo said softly and Robert Jordan 
looked across the table at him, saw it was not a provocation but 
only an expressed thought, then went on. “Seeing bad signs, one, 
with fear, imagines an end for himself and one thinks that 
imagining comes by divination,” Robert Jordan concluded. “I 
believe there is nothing more to it than that. I do not believe in 
ogres, nor soothsayers, nor in supernatural things.” 

“But this one with the rare name saw his fate clearly,” the 
gypsy said. “And that was how it happened.” 

“He did not see it,” Robert Jordan said. “He had a fear of 
such a possibility and it became an obsession. No one can tell me 
that he saw anything.” 

“Not I?” Pilar asked him and picked some dust up from the 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 2^1 

fire and blew it ofiE the palm of her hand. “I cannot tell thee 
either?” 

“No. With all wizardry, gypsy and all, thou canst not tell me 
either.” 

“Because thou art a miracle of deafness,” Pilar said, her big 
face harsh and broad in the candlelight. “It is not that thou art 
stupid. Thou art simply deaf. One who is deaf cannot hear music. 
Neither can he hear the radio. So he might say, never having 
heard them, that such things do not exist. Que m, Ingles. I saw 
the death of that one with the rare name in his face as though 
it were burned there with a branding iron.” 

“You did not,” Robert Jordan insisted. “You saw fear and appre- 
hension. The fear was made by what he had been through. The 
apprehension was for the possibility of evil he imagined ’ 

“Que va," Pilar said. “I saw death there as plainly as though it 
were sitting on his shoulder. And what is more he smelt of death.” 

“He smelt of death,” Robert Jordan jeered. “Of fear maybe. 
There is a smell to fear.” 

“De la muerte,” Pilar said. “Listen. When Blanquet, who was 
the greatest peon de brega who ever lived, worked under the 
orders of Granero he told me that on the day of Manolo Granero’s 
death, when they stopped in the chapel on the way to the ring, 
the odor of death was so strong on Manolo that it almost made 
Blanquet sick. And he had been with Manolo when he had bathed 
and dressed at the hotel before setting out for the ring. The odor 
was not present in the motorcar when they had sat packed tight 
together riding to the bull ring. Nor was it distinguishable to any 
one else but Juan Luis de la Rosa in the chapel. Neither Marcial 
nor Chicuelo smelled it neither then nor when the four of them 
lined up for the paseo. But Juan Luis was dead white, Blanquet 
told me, and he, Blanquet, spoke to him saying, ‘Thou also?’ 

“ ‘So that I cannot breathe,’ Juan Luis said to him. ‘And from 
thy matador.’ 

“ ‘Pues nada,’ Blanquet said. ‘There is nothing to do. Let us 
hope we are mistaken.’ 

“‘And the others?’ Juan Luis asked Blanquet. 

" ‘Nada,’ Blanquet said. ‘Nothing. But this one stinks worse 
than Jose at Talavera.’ 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“And it was on that afternoon that the bull Pocapena of the 
ranch of Veragua destroyed Manolo Granero against the planks 
of the barrier in front of tendido two in the Plaza de Toros of 
Madrid. I was there with Finito and I saw it. The horn entirely 
destroyed the cranium, the head of Manolo being wedged under 
the estribo at the base of the barrera where the bull had tossed 
him.” 

“But did you smell anything?” Fernando asked. 

“Nay,” Pilar said. “I was too far away. We were in the seventh 
row of tendido three. It was thus, being at an angle, that I could 
see all that happened. But that same night Blanquet who had 
been under the orders of Joselito when he too was killed told 
Finito about it at Fornos, and Finito asked Juan Luis de la Rosa 
and he would say nothing. But he nodded his head that it was 
true. I was present when this happened. So, Ingles, it may be that 
thou art deaf to some things as Chicuelo and Marcial Lalanda and 
all of their banderilleros and picadors and all of the gente of 
Juan Luis and Manolo Granero were deaf to this thing on this 
day. But Juan Luis and Blanquet were not deaf. Nor am I deaf 
to such things.” 

“Why do you say deaf when it is a thing of the nose?” Fernando 
asked. 

“Lechel” Pilar said. “Thou shouldst be the professor in place 
of the Ingles. But I could tell thee of other things, Ingles, and 
do not doubt what thou simply cannot see nor cannot hear. Thou 
canst not hear what a dog hears. Nor canst thou smeU what a 
dog smells. But already thou hast experienced a litde of what can 
happen to man.” 

Maria put her hand on Robert Jordan’s shoulder and let it rest 
there and he thought suddenly, let us finish all this nonsense and 
take advantage of what time we have. But it is too early yet. We 
have to kill this part of the evening. So he said to Pablo, “Thou, 
believest thou in this wizardry?” 

“I do not know,” Pablo said. “I am more of thy opinion. No 
supernatural thing has ever happened to me. But fear, yes cer- 
tainly. Plenty. But I believe that the Pilar can divine events from 
the hand. If she does not lie perhaps it is true that she has smelt 
such a thing.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


253 

“Que va that I should lie,” Pilar said. “This is not a thing o£ 
my invention. This man Blanquet was a man of extreme serious- 
ness and furthermore very devout. He was no gypsy but a bour- 
geois from Valencia. Hast thou never seen him?” 

“Yes,” Robert Jordan said. “I have seen him many times. He 
was small, gray-faced and no one handled a cape better. He was 
quick on his feet as a rabbit.” 

“Exactly,” Pilar said. “He had a gray face from heart trouble 
and gypsies said that he carried death with him but that he could 
flick it away with a cape as you might dust a table. Yet he, who 
was no gypsy, smelled death on Joselito when he fought at Tala- 
vera. Although I do not see how he could smell it above the smell 
of manzanilla. Blanquet spoke of this afterwards with much diffi- 
dence but those to whom he spoke said that "s a fantasy and 
that what he had smelled was the life that Jose lea at that time 
coming out in sweat from his armpits. But then, later, came this 
of Manolo Granero in which Juan Luis de la Rosa also partici- 
pated. Clearly Juan Luis was a man of very httle honor, but of 
much sensitiveness in his work and he was also a great layer of 
women. But Blanquet was serious and very quiet and completely 
incapable of telling an untruth. And I tell you that I smelled death 
on your colleague who was here.” 

“I do not believe it,” Robert Jordan said. “Also you said that 
Blanquet smelled this just before the paseo. Just before the bull- 
fight started. Now this was a successful act. here of you and 
Kashkin and the train. He was not killed in that. How could 
you smell it then?” 

“That has nothing to do with it,” Pilar explained. “In the last 
season of Ignacio Sanchez Mejias he smelled so strongly of death 
that many refused to sit with him in the cafe. All gypsies knew 
of this.” 

“After the death such things are invented,” Robert Jordan 
argued. “Every one knew that Sanchez Mejias was on the road 
to a cornada because he had been too long out of tr ainin g, 
because his style was heavy and dangerous, and because his 
strength and the agility in his legs were gone and his reflexes no 
longer as they had been.” 

“Certainly,” Pilar told him. “All of that is true. But all the 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


254 

gypsies knew also that he smelled of death and when he would 
come into the Villa Rosa you would see such people as Ricardo 
and Felipe Gonzalez leaving by the small door behind the bar.” 

“They probably owed him money,” Robert Jordan said. 

“It is possible,” Pilar said. “Very possible. But they also smelled 
the thing and all knew of it.” 

“What she says is true, Ingles,” the gypsy, Rafael, said. “It is 
a well-known thing among us.” 

“I believe nothing of it,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Listen, Ingles,” Anselmo began. “I am against all such wizardry. 
But this Pilar has the fame of being very advanced in such things.” 

“But what does it smell like?” Fernando asked. “What odor has 
it? If there be an odor it must be a definite odor.” 

“You want to know, Fernandito?” Pilar smiled at him. “You 
think that you could smell it?” 

“If it actually exists why should I not smell it as well as 
another?” 

“Why not?” Pilar was making fun of him, her big hands 
folded across her knees. “Hast thou ever been aboard a ship, 
Fernando?” 

“Nay. And I would not wish to.” 

“Then thou might not recognize it. For part of it is the smell 
that comes when, on a ship, there is a storm and the portholes 
are closed up. Put your nose against the brass handle of a screwed- 
tight porthole on a rolling ship that is swaying under you so that 
you are faint and hollow in the stomach and you have a part of 
that smell.” 

“It would be impossible for me to recognize because I will go 
on no ship,” Fernando said. 

“I have been on ships several times,” Pilar said. “Both to go to 
Mexico and to Venezuela.” 

“What’s the rest of it?” Robert Jordan asked. Pilar looked at 
him mockingly, remembering now, proudly, her voyages. 

“All right, Ingles. Learn. That’s the thing. Learn. All right. 
After that of the ship you must go down the hill in Madrid to 
the Puente de Toledo early in the morning to the matadero and 
stand there on the wet paving when there is a fog from the 
Manzanares and wait for the old women who go before daylight 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


255 

to drink the blood of the beasts that are slaughtered. When such 
an old woman comes out of the matadero, holding her shawl 
around her, with her face gray and her eyes hollow, and the 
whiskers of age on her chin, and on her cheeks, set in the waxen 
white of her face as the sprouts grow from the seed of a bean, 
not bristles, but pale sprouts in the death of her face; put your 
arms tight around her, Ingles, and hold her to you and kiss her 
on the mouth and you will know the second part that odor is 
made of.” 

“That one has taken my appetite,” the gypsy said. “That of the 
sprouts was too much,” 

“Do you want to hear some more?” Pilar asked Robert Jordan. 

“Surely,” he said. “If it is necessary for one to learn let us 
learn.” 

“That of the sprouts in the face of the old women sickens me,” 
the gypsy said. “Why should that occur in old women. Pilar? 
With us it is not so.” 

“Nay,” Pilar mocked at him. “With us the old woman, who 
was so slender in her youth, except of course for the perpetual 
bulge that is the mark of her husband’s favor, that every gypsy 
pushes always before her ” * 

“Do not speak thus,” Rafael said. “It is ignoble.” 

“So thou art hurt,” Pilar said. “Hast thou ever seen a gitana 
who was not about to have, or just to have had, a child?” 

“Thou.” 

“Leave it,” Pilar said. “There is no one who cannot be hurt. 
What I was saying is that age brings its own form of ugliness 
to all. There is no need to detail it. But if the Ingles must learn 
that odor that he covets to recognize he must go to the matadero 
early in the morning.” 

“I will go,” Robert Jordan said. “But I will get the odor as 
they pass without kissing one. I fear the sprouts, too, as Rafael 
does.” 

“Kiss one,” Pilar said. “Kiss one, Ingles, for thy knowledge’s 
sake and then, with this in thy nostrils, walk back up into the city 
and when thou seest a refuse pail with dead flowers in it plunge 
thy nose deep into it and inhale so that scent mixes with those 
thou hast already in thy nasal passages.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


256 

“Now have I done it,” Robert Jordan said. “What flowers were 
they .f*” 

“Chrysanthemums.” 

“Continue,” Robert Jordan said. “I smell them.” 

“Then,” Pilar went on, “it is important that the day be in 
autumn with rain, or at least some fog, or early winter even and 
now thou shouldst continue to walk through the city and down 
the Calle de Salud smelling what thou wilt smell where they are 
sweeping out the casas de putas and emptying the slop jars into the 
drains and, with this odor of love’s labor lost mixed sweetly with 
soapy water and cigarette butts only faintly reaching thy nostrils, 
thou shouldst go on to the Jardin Botanico where at night those 
girls who can no longer work in the houses do their work against 
the iron gates of the park and the iron picketed fences and upon 
the sidewalks. It is there in the shadow of the trees against the 
iron railings that they will perform all that a man wishes; from 
the simplest requests at a remuneration of ten centimos up to a 
peseta for that great act that we are born to and there, on a dead 
flower bed that has not yet been plucked out and replanted, and 
so serves to soften the earth that is so much softer than the side- 
walk, thou wilt find an abandoned gunny sack with the odor 
of the wet earth, the dead flowers, and the doings of that night. 
In this sack will be contained the essence of it all, both the dead 
earth and the dead stalks of the flowers and their rotted blooms 
and the smell that is both the death and birth of man. Thou wilt 
wrap this sack around thy head and try to breathe through it.” 

“No.” 

“Yes,” Pilar said. “Thou wilt wrap this sack around thy head 
and try to breathe and then, if thou hast not lost any of the pre- 
vious odors, when thou inhalest deeply, thou wilt smell the odor 
of death-to-come as we know it.” 

“All right,” Robert Jordan said, “And you say Kashkin smelt 
like that when he was here?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well,” said Robert Jordan gravely. “If that is true it is a good 
thin? that I shot him.” 

"Ole" the gypsy said. The others laughed. 


. / 

FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 257 

“Very good,” Primitivo approved. “That should hold her for a 
while.” 

“But Pilar,” Fernando said. “Surely you could not expect one 
of Don Roberto’s education to do such vile things.” 

“No,” Pilar agreed. 

“All of that is of the utmost repugnance.” 

“Yes,” Pilar agreed. 

“You would not expect him actually to perform those degrad- 
ing acts.?” 

“No,” Pilar said. “Go to bed, will you?” 

“But, Pilar—” Fernando went on. 

“Shut up, will you?” Pilar said to him suddenly and viciously. 
“Do not make a fool of thyself and I will try not to make a 
fool of myself talking with people who cannot understand what 
one speaks of.” 

“I confess I do not understand,” Fernando began. 

“Don’t confess and don’t try to understand,” Pilar said. “Is it 
still snowing outside?” 

Robert Jordan went to the mouth of the cave, lifted the blanket 
and looked out. It was clear and cold in the night outside and no 
snow was falling. He looked through the tree trunks where the 
whiteness lay and up through the trees to where the sky was now 
clear. The air came into his lungs sharp and cold as he breathed. 

“El Sordo will leave plenty of tracks if he has stolen horses 
tonight,” he thought. 

He dropped the blanket and came back into the smoky cave. 
“It is clear,” he said. “The storm is over.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY 


Now IN the night he lay and waited for the girl to come to him. 
There was no wind now and the pines were stiU in the night. 
The trunks of the pines projected from the snow that covered all 
the ground, and he lay in the robe feeling the suppleness of the bed 
under him that he had made, his legs stretched long against the 
warmth of the robe, the air sharp and cold on his head and in 
his nostrils as he breathed. Under his head, as he lay on his side, 
was the bulge of the trousers and the coat that he had wrapped 
around his shoes to make a pillow and against his side was the 
cold metal of the big automatic pistol he had taken from the 
holster when he undressed and fastened by its halyard to his right 
wrist. He pushed the pistol away and setded deeper into the robe 
as he watched, across the snow, the dark break in the rocks that 
was the entrance to the cave. The sky was clear and there was 
enough light reflected from the snow to see the trunks of the 
trees and the bulk of the rocks where the cave was. 

Earlier in the evening he had taken the ax and gone outside of 
the cave and walked through the new snow to the edge of the 
clearing and cut down a small spruce tree. In the dark he had 
dragged it, butt first, to the lee of the rock wall. There close to 
the rock, he had held the tree upright, holding the trunk firm 
with one hand, and, holding the ax-haft close to the head had 
lopped off all the boughs until he had a pile of them. Then, 
leaving the pile of boughs, he had laid the bare pole of the trunk 
down in the snow and gone into the cave to get a slab of wood 
he had seen against the wall. With this slab he scraped the ground 
clear of the snow along the rock wall and then picked up his 
boughs and shaking them clean of snow laid them in rows, like 
over-lapping plumes, until he had a bed. He put the pole across 
the foot of the bough bed to hold the branches in place and pegged 
it firm with two pointed pieces of wood he spht from the edge 
of the slab. 


258 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


259 

Then he carried the slab and the ax back into the cave, ducking 
under the blanket as he came in, and leaned them both against 
the wall. 

“What do you do outside .f*” Pilar had asked. 

“I made a bed.” 

“Don’t cut pieces from my new shelf for thy bed.” 

“I am sorry.” 

“It has no importance,” she said. “There are more slabs at the 
sawmill. What sort of bed hast thou made?” 

“As in my country.” 

“Then sleep well in it,” she had said and Robert Jordan had 
opened one of the packs and pulled the robe out and replaced 
those things wrapped in it back in the pack and carried the robe 
out, ducking under the blanket again, and spread it over the 
boughs so that the closed end of the robe was against the pole 
that was pegged cross-wise at the foot of the bed. The open head 
of the robe was protected by the rock wall of the cliff. Then he 
went back into the cave for his packs but Pilar said, “They can 
sleep with me as last night.” 

“Will you not have sentries?” he asked. “The night is clear 
and the storm is over.” 

“Fernando goes,” Pilar said. 

Maria was in the back of the cave and Robert Jordan could not 
see her. 

“Good night to every one,” he had said. “I am going to sleep.” 

Of the others, who were laying out blankets and bedrolls on 
the floor in front of the cooking fire, pushing back the slab tables 
and the rawhide-covered stools to make sleeping space, Primitivo 
and Andres looked up and said, “Buenas noches.” 

Anselmo was already asleep in a corner, rolled in his blanket and 
his cape, not even his nose showing. Pablo was asleep in his chair. 

“Do you want a sheep hide for thy bed?” Pilar asked Robert 
Jordan softly. 

“Nay,” he said. “Thank thee. I do not need it.” 

“Sleep well,” she said. “I will respond for thy material.” 

Fernando had gone out with him and stood a moment where 
Robert Jordan had spread the sleeping robe. 

“You have a curious idea to sleep in the open, Don Roberto,” 


26 o 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


he said standing there in the dark, muffled in his blanket cape, 
his carbine slung over his shoulder. 

“I am accustomed to it. Good night.” 

“Since you are accustomed to iL” 

“When are you relieved.?” 

“At four.” 

“There is much cold betvi^een now and then.” 

“I am accustomed to it,” Fernando said. 

“Since, rfien, you are accustomed to it—” Robert Jordan said 
politely. 

“Yes,” Fernando agreed. “Now I must get up there. Good 
night, Don Roberto.” 

“Good night, Fernando.” 

Then he had made a pillow of the things he took off and gotten 
into the robe and then lain and waited, feeling the spring of the 
boughs under the flannelly, feathered lightness of the robe warmth, 
watching the mouth of the cave across the snow; feeling his 
heart beat as he waited. 

The night was clear and his head felt as clear and cold as the 
air. He smelled the odor of the pine boughs under him, the piney 
smell of the crushed needles and the sharper odor of the resinous 
sap from the cut limbs. Pilar, he thought. Pilar and the smell of 
death. This is the smell I love. This and fresh-cut clover, the 
crushed sage as you ride after cattle, wood-smoke and the burning 
leaves of autumn. That must be the odor of nostalgia, the smell 
of the smoke from the piles of raked leaves burning in the streets 
in the fall in Missoula. Which would you rather smell.? Sweet 
grass the Indians used in their baskets? Smoked leather? The 
odor of the ground in the spring after rain? The smell of the 
sea as vou walk through the gorse on a headland in Galicia.? Or 
the wind from the land as you come in toward Cuba in the dark.? 
That was the odor of the cactus flowers, mimosa and the sea- 
grape shrubs. Or would you rather smell frying bacon in the 
morning when you are hungry? Or coffee in the morning? Or a 
Jonathan apple as you bit into it? Or a cider mill in the grinding, 
or bread fresh from the oven.? You must be hungry, he thought, 
and he lay on his side and watched the entrance of the cave in the 
light that the stars reflected from the snow. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


261 

Some one came out from under the blanket and he could see 
whoever it was standing by the break in the rock that made the 
entrance. Then he heard a slithering sound in the snow and then 
whoever it was ducked down and went back in. 

I suppose she won’t come until they are all asleep, he thought. 
It is a waste of time. The night is half gone. Oh, Maria. Come now 
quickly, Maria, for there is little time. He heard the soft sound of 
snow falling from a branch onto the snow on the ground. A little 
wind was rising. He felt it on his face. Suddenly he felt a panic 
that she might not come. The wind rising now reminded him how 
soon it would be morning. More snow fell from the branches 
as he heard the wind now moving the pine tops. 

Come now, Maria. Please come here now quickly, he thought. 
Oh, come here now. Do not wait. There is no importance any 
more to your waiting until they are asleep. 

Then he saw her coming out from under the blanket that cov- 
ered the cave mouth. She stood there a moment and he knew it 
was she but he could not see what she was doing. He whistled a 
low whistle and she was still at the cave mouth doing something 
in the darkness of the rock shadow. Then she came running, car- 
rying something in her hands and he saw her running long-legged 
through the snow. Then she was kneeling by the robe, her head 
pushed hard against him, slapping the snow from her feet. She 
kissed him and handed him her bundle. 

“Put it with thy pillow,” she said. “I took these off there to save 
time.” 

“You came barefoot through the snow?” 

“Yes,” she said, “and wearing only my wedding shirt.” 

He held her close and tight in his arms and she rubbed her head 
against his chin. 

“Avoid the feet,” she said. “They are very cold, Roberto.” 

“Put them here and warm them.” 

“Nay,” she said. “They will warm quickly. But say quickly now 
that you love me.” 

“I love thee.” 

“Good. Good. Good.” 

“I love thee, little rabbit.” 

“Do you love my wedding shirt?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 

the same one as always.” 

“Yes. As last night. It is my wedding shirt.” 

“Put thy feet here.” 

“Nay, that would be abusive. They will warm of themselves. 
They are warm to me. It is only that the snow has made them 
cold toward thee. Say it again.” 

“I love thee, my little rabbit.” 

“I love thee, too, and I am thy wife.” 

“Were they asleep.?” 

“No,” she said. “But I could support it no longer. And what 
importance has it.?” 

“None,” he said, and felt her against him, slim and long and 
warmly lovely. “No other thing has importance.” 

“Put thy hand on my head,” she said, “and then let me see if 
I can kiss thee.” 

“Was it well.?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said. “Take off thy wedding shirt.” 

“You think I should.?” 

“Yes, if thou wilt not be cold.” 

“Que va, cold. I am on fire.” 

“I, too. But afterwards thou wilt not be cold.?” 

“No. Afterwards we will be as one animal of the forest and be 

so close that neither one can tell that one of us is one and not the 

other. Can you not feel my heart be your heart.?” 

“Yes. There is no difference.” 

“Now, feel. I am thee and thou art me and all of one is the 
other. And I love thee, oh, I love thee so. Are we not truly one.? 
Canst thou not feel it.?” 

“Yes,” he said. “It is true.” 

“And feel now. Thou hast no heart but mine.” 

“Nor any other legs, nor feet, nor of the body.” 

“But we are different,” she said. “I \y ould have us exac tly the 
sa^e.” 

“ You do not mean tha t.” 

“Yes I do. I do. That is a thing I had to tell thee.” 

“You do not mean that.” 

“Perhaos I do not,” she said speaking softly with her lips against 
his shoulder. “But I wished to say it. Since we are different I am 



FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 263 

glad that thou art Roberto and I Maria. But if thou should ever 
wish to change I would be glad to change. I would be thee because 
I love thee so.” 

“I do not wis h to change. It is better to be one and each one to 
be the one he is .” 

“But we will be one now and there will never be a separate 
one.” Then she said, “I will(^th ee wh en thou art/tl^ there. Oh, 
I Ig^^e thee so and 1 must care well for thee.” ' 

ftaria.” 

“Yes.” 

“Maria.” 

“Yes.” 

“Maria.” 

“Oh, yes. Please.” 

“Art thou not cold.?” 

“Oh, no. Pull the robe over thy shoulders.” 

“Maria.” 

“I cannot speak.” 

“Oh, Maria. Maria. Maria.” j 

Then afterwards, close, with the night cold outside, in the long 
warmth of the robe, her head touching his cheek, she lay quiet 
and happy against him and then said softly, “And thou.?” 

“Como tu,” he said. 

“Yes,” she said. “But it was not as this afternoon.” 

“No.” 

“But I loved it more. One do ps nnt need to die.” 

“Ojala no” he said. “I hope not.” 

“I did not mean that.” 

“I know. I know what thou meanest. We mean the same.” 

“Then why did you say that instead of what I meant.?” 

“With a man there is a difference.” 

“Then I am glad that we are different.” 

“And so am I,” he said. “But I understood about the dying. I 
only spoke thus, as a man, from habit. I feel the same as thee.” 

“However thou art and however thou speakest is how I would 
have thee be.” 

“And I love thee and I love thy name, Maria.” 

“It is a common name.” 


“No,” he said. “It is not common.” 

“Now should we sleep.?” she said. “I could sleep easily.” 

“Let us sleep,” he said, and he felt the long light body, warm 
against him, comforting against him, abolishing loneliness ag ainst 
him, magically, by a simple touching of flanks, of shoulders and of 
feet,(making an alliance against death^lwith h im, and he said, “Sl eep 
well, little long rabbit.” 

She said, “I am asleep already.” 

“I am going to^,^ep,” he said. “Sleep well, beloved.” Then he 
was asleep_and(happ)^s he slept. 

But in the night fie woke ancTheld her tight as though she were 
all of life and it was being taken from him . He held her feeling she 
was all of life there was and it was true. But she was sleeping well 
and soundly and she did not wake. So he rolled away onto his side 
and pulled the robe over her head and kissed her once on her neck 
under the robe and then pulled the pistol lanyard up and put the 
pistol by his side where he could reach it handily and then he lay 
there in the night thinking. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 


A WARM wind came with daylight and he could hear the snow 
melting in the trees and the heavy sound of its falling. It was a late 
spring morning. He knew with the first breath he drew that the 
snow had been only a freak storm in the mountains and it would 
be gone by noon. Then he heard'^ fiSrse coming, the hoofs balled 
with the wet snow thumping-^dully as the horseman trotted. He 
heard the noise of a carbine scabbard slapping loosely and the creak 
of leather. 

“Maria,” he said, and shook the girl’s shoulder to waken her. 
“Keep thyself under the robe,” and he buttoned his shirt with one 
hand and held the automatic pistol in the other, loosening the safety 
catch with his thumb. He saw the girl’s cropped head disappear 
with a jerk under the robe and then he saw the horseman coming 
through the trees. He crouched now in the robe and holding the 
pistol in both hands aimed it at the man as he rode toward him. 
He had never seen this man before. 

The horseman was almost opposite him now. He was riding a 
big gray gelding and he wore a khaki beret, a blanket cape like a 
poncho, and heavy black boots. From the scabbard on the right of 
his saddle projected the stock and the long oblong clip of a short 
automatic rifle. He had a young, hard face and at this moment he 
saw Robert Jordan. 

He reached his hand down toward the scabbard and as he swung 
low, turning and jerking at the scabbard, Robert Jordan saw the 
scarlet of the formalized device he wore on the left breast of his 
khaki blanket cape. 

Aiming at the center of his chest, a little lower than the device, 
Robert Jordan fired. 

The pistol roared in the snowy woods. 

The horse plunged as though he had been spurred and the young 
man, still tugging at the scabbard, slid over toward the ground, his 
right foot caught in the stirrup. The horse broke off through the 

265 


266 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


trees dragging him, bumping, face downward, and Robert Jordan 
stood up holding the pistol now in one hand. 

The big gray horse was galloping through the pines. There was a 
broad swath in the snow where the man dragged with a scarlet 
streak along one side of it. People were coming out of the mouth 
of the cave. Robert Jordan reached down and unrolled his trousers 
from the pillow and began to put them on. 

“Get thee dressed,” he said to Maria. 

Overhead he heard the noise of a plane flying very high. Through 
the trees he saw where the gray horse had stopped and was stand- 
ing, his rider still hanging face down from the stirrup. 

“Go catch that horse,” he called to Primitivo who had started over 
toward him. Then, “Who was on guard at the top?” 

“Rafael,” Pilar said from the cave. She stood there, her hair still 
down her back in two braids. 

“There’s cavalry out,” Robert Jordan said. “Get your damned gun 
up there.” 

He heard Pilar call, “Agustin,” into the cave. Then she went 
into the cavr and then two men came running out, one with the 
automatic rifle with its tripod swung on his shoulder; the other 
with a sackful of the pans. 

“Get up there with them,” Robert Jordan said to Anselmo. “You 
lie beside the gun and hold the legs still,” he said. 

The three of them went up the trail through the woods at a run. 

The sun had not yet come up over the tops of the mountains and 
Robert Jordan stood straight buttoning his trousers and tightening 
his belt, the big pistol hanging from the lanyard on his wrist. He 
put the pistol in its holster on his belt and slipped the knot down 
on the lanyard and passed the loop over his head. 

Somebody will choke you with that sometime, he thought. Well, 
this has done it. He took the p'stol out of the holster, removed the 
clip, inserted one of the cartridges from the row alongside of the 
holster and shoved the clip back into the butt of the pistol. 

He looked through the trees to where Primitivo, holding the reins 
of the horse, was twisting the rider’s foot out of the stirrup. The 
body lay face down in the snow and as he watched Primitivo was 
gomg through the pockets. 

“Come on,” he called. “Bring the horse.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


267 

As he knelt to put on his rope-soled shoes, Robert Jordan could 
feel Maria against his knees, dressing herself under the robe. She 
had no place in his life now. 

That cavalryman did not expect anything, he was thinking. He 
was not following horse tracks and he was not even properly alert, 
let alone alarmed. He was not even following the tracks up to the 
post. He must have been one of a patrol scattered out in these hills. 
But when the patrol misses him they will follow his tracks here. 
Unless the snow melts first, he thought. Unless something happens 
to the patrol. 

“You better get down below,” he said to Pablo. 

They were all out of the cave now, standing there with the car- 
bines and with grenades on their belts. Pilar held a leather bag of 
grenades toward Robert Jordan and he took three and put them in 
his pocket. He ducked into the cave, found his two packs, opened the 
one with the submachine gun in it and took out the barrel and 
stock, slipped the stock onto the forward assembly and put one clip 
into the gun and three in his pockets. He locked the pack and started 
for the door. I’ve got two pockets full of hardware, he thought. I 
hope the seams hold. He came out of the cave and said to Pablo, 
“I’m going up above. Can Agustm shoot that gun.?” 

“Yes,” Pablo said. He was watching Primitivo leading up the 
horse. 

“Mira que caballo,” he said. “Look, what a horse.” 

The big gray was sweating and shivering a little and Robert Jor- 
dan patted him on the withers. 

“I will put him with the others,” Pablo said. 

“No,” Robert Jordan said. “He has made tracks into here. He 
must make them out.” 

“True,” agreed Pablo. “I will ride him out and will hide him and 
bring him in when the snow is melted. Thou hast much head today, 
Ingles.” 

“Send some one below,” Robert Jordan said. “We’ve got to get 
up there.” 

“It is not necessary,” Pablo said. “Horsemen cannot come that 
way. But we can get out, by there and by two other places. It is 
better not to make tracks if there are planes coming. Give me the 
bota with wine. Pilar.” 


268 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


“To go off and get drunk,” Pilar said. “Here, take these instead.” 
He reached over and put two of the grenades in his pockets. 

“Que va, to get drunk,” Pablo said. “There is gravity in the situ- 
ation. But give me the bota. I do not hke to do all this on water.” 

He reached his arms up, took the reins and swung up into the 
saddle. He grinned and patted the nervous horse. Robert Jordan 
saw him rub his leg along the horse’s flank affectionately. 

“Que caballo mas bonito" he said and patted the big gray again. 
“Que caballo mas hermoso. Come on. The faster this gets out of 
here the better.” 

He reached down and pulled the light automatic rifle with its 
ventilated barrel, really a submachine gun built to take the 9 mm. 
pistol cartridge, from the scabbard, and looked at it. “Look how 
they are armed,” he said. “Look at modern cavalry.” 

“There’s modern cavalry over there on his face,” Robert Jordan 
said. “Vamonos.” 

“Do you, Andres, saddle and hold the horses in readiness. If you 
hear firing bring them up to the woods behind the gap. Come with 
thy arms and leave the women to hold the horses. Fernando, see 
that my sacks are brought also. Above all, that my sacks are brought 
carefully. Thou to look after my sacks, too,” he said to Pilar. “Thou 
to verify that they come with the horses. Vamonos," he said. “Let 
us go.” 

“The Maria and I will prepare all for leaving,” Pilar said. Then 
to Robert Jordan, “Look at him,” nodding at Pablo on the gray 
horse, sitting him in the heavy-thighed herdsman manner, the horse’s 
nostrils widening as Pablo replaced the clip in the automatic rifle. 
“See what a horse has done for him.” 

“That I should have two horses,” Robert Jordan said fervendy. 

“Danger is thy horse.” 

“Then give me a mule,” Robert Jordan grinned. 

“Strip me that,” he said to Pilar and jerked his head toward 
where the man lay face down in the snow. “And bring everything, 
all the letters and papers, and put them in the outside pocket of 
mv sack. Everything, understand .i*” 

“Yes.” 

“Vamonos,” he said. 

Pablo rode ahead and the two men followed in single file in or- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


269 

der not to track up the snow. Robert Jordan carried the submachine 
gun muzzle down, carrying it by its forward hand grip. I wish 
it took the same ammunition that saddle gun takes, he thought. But 
it doesn’t. This is a German gun. This was old Kashkin’s gun. 

The sun was coming over the mountains now. A warm wind was 
blowing and the snow was melting. It was a lovely late spring 
morning. 

Robert Jordan looked back and saw Maria now standing with 
Pilar. Then she came running up the trail. He dropped behind 
Primitivo to speak to her. 

“Thou,” she said. “Can I go with thee.?” 

“No. Help Pilar.” 

She was walking behind him and put her hand on his arm. 

“I’m coming.” 

“Nay.” 

She kept on walking close behind him. 

“I could hold the legs of the gun in the way thou told Anselmo.” 

“Thou wilt hold no legs. Neither of guns nor of nothing.” 

Walking beside him she reached forward and put her hand in 
his pocket. 

“No,” he said. “But take good care of thy wedding shirt.” 

“Kiss me,” she said, “if thou goest.” 

“Thou art shameless,” he said. 

“Yes,” she said. “Totally.” 

“Get thee back now. There is much work to do. We may fight 
here if they follow these horse tracks.” 

“Thou,” she said. “Didst thee see what he wore on his chest?” 

“Yes. Why not?” 

“It was the Sacred Heart.” 

“Yes. All the people of Navarre wear it.” 

“And thou shot for that?” 

“No. Below it. Get thee back now.” 

“Thou,” she said. “I saw all.” 

“Thou saw nothing. One man. One man from a horse. Veie. 
Get thee back.” 

“Say that you love me.” 

“No. Not now.” 

“Not love me now?” 


/ 


270 FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 

"Dejamos. Get thee back. One does not do that and love all at the 
same moment.” 

“I want to go to hold the legs of the gun and while it speaks love 
thee all in the same moment.” 

“Thou art crazy. Get thee back now.” 

“I am not crazy,” she said. “I love thee.” 

“Then get thee back.” 

“Good. I go. And if thou dost not love me, I love thee enough 
for both.” 

He looked at her and smiled through his thinking. 

“When you hear firing,” he said, “come with the horses. Aid the 
Pilar with my sacks. It is possible there will be nothing. I hope so.” 

“I go,” she said. “Look what a horse Pablo rides.” 

The big gray was moving ahead up the trail. 

“Yes. But go.” 

“I go.” 

Her fist, clenched tight in his pocket, beat hard against his thigh. 
He looked at her and saw there were tears in her eyes. She puUed 
her fist out of his pocket and put both arms tight around his neck 
and kissed him. 

“I go,” she said. “Me voy. I go.” 

He looked back and saw her standing there, the first morning 
sunlight on her brown face and the cropped, tawny, burned-gold 
hair. She lifted her fist at him and turned and walked back down 
the trail, her head down. 

Primitivo turned around and looked after her. 

“If she did not have her hair cut so short she would be a pretty 
girl,” he said. 

“Yes,” Robert Jordan said. He was thinking of something else, 

“How is she in the bed.?*” Primitivo asked. 

“What?” 

“In the bed.” 

“Watch thy mouth.” 

“One should not be offended when ” 

“Leave it,” Robert Jordan said. He was looking at the position. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 


“Cut me pine branches,” Robert Jordan said to Primitivo, “and 
bring them quickly.” 

“I do not like the gun there,” he said to Agustin. 

“Why.?” 

“Place it over there,” Robert Jordan pointed, “and later I will tell 
thee.” 

“Here, thus. Let me help thee. Here,” he said, then squatted down. 

He looked out across the narrow oblong, noting the height o£ the 
rocks on either side. 

“It must be farther,” he said, “farther out. Good. Here. That will 
do until it can be done properly. There. Put the stones there. Here 
is one. Put another there at the side. Leave room for the muzzle to 
swing. The stone must be farther to this side. Anselmo. Get thee 
down to the cave and bring me an ax. Quickly.” 

“Have you never had a proper emplacement for the gun.?” he 
said to Agustin. 

“We always placed it here.” 

“Kashkin never said to put it there.?” 

“No. The gun was brought after he left.” 

“Did no one bring it who knew how to use it?” 

“No. It was brought by porters.” 

“What a way to do things,” Robert Jordan said. “It was just given 
to you without instruction?” 

“Yes, as a gift might be given. One for us and one for El Sordo. 
Four men brought them. Anselmo guided them.” 

“It was a wonder they did not lose them with four men to cross 
the lines.” 

“I thought so, too,” Agustin said. “I thought those who sent 
them meant for them to be lost. But Anselmo brought them well.” 
, “You know how to handle it?” 

“Yes. I have experimented. I know. Pablo knows. Primitivo 
knows. So does Fernando. We have made a study of taking it apart 

271 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


272 

and putting it together on the table in the cave. Once we had it 
apart and could not get it together for two days. Since then we 
have not had it apart.” 

“Does it shoot now.?” 

“Yes. But we do not let the gypsy nor others frig with it.” 

“You see? From there it was useless,” he said. “Look. Those rocks 
which should protect your flanks give cover to those who will 
attack you. With such a gun vou must seek a flatness over which 
to fire. Also you must take them sideways. See? Look now. All 
that is dominated.” 

“I see,” said Agustin. “But we have never fought in defense 
except when our town was taken. At the train there were soldiers 
with the mdquina.” 

“Then we will all learn together,” Robert Jordan said. “There are 
a few things to observe. Where is the gypsy who should be here?” 

“I do not know.” 

“Where is it possible for him to be?” 

“I do not know.” 

Pablo had ridden out through the pass and turned once and 
ridden in a circle across the level space at the top that was the field 
of fire for the automatic rifle. Now Robert Jordan watched him 
riding down the slope alongside the tracks the horse had left when 
he was ridden in. He disappeared in the trees turning off to the left. 

“I hope he doesn’t run right into cavalry,” Robert Jordan thought. 
“I’m afraid we’d have him right here in our laps.” 

Primitive brought the pine branches and Robert Jordan stuck 
them through the snow into the unfrozen earth, arching them over 
the gun from either side. 

“Bring more,” he said. “There must be cover for the two men 
who serve it. This is not good but it will serve until the ax comes. 
Listen,” he said, “if you hear a plane lie flat wherever thou art in 
the shadows of the rocks. I am here with the gun.” 

Now with the sun up and the warm wind blowing it was pleasant 
on the side of the rocks where the sun shone. Four horses, Robert 
Jordan thought. The two women and me, Anselmo, Primitivo, 
Fernando, Agustin, what the hell is the name of the other brother? 
That’s eight. Not counting the gypsy. Makes nine. Plus Pablo gone 
with one horse makes ten. Andres is his name. The other brother. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


273 

Plus the other, Eladio. Makes ten. That’s not one-half a horse 
apiece. Three men can hold this and four can get away. Five with 
Pablo. That’s two left over. Three with Eladio. Where the hell 
is he? 

God knows what will happen to Sordo today if they picked up 
the trail of those horses in the snow. That was tough; the snow 
stopping that way. But it melting today will even things up. But 
not for Sordo. I’m afraid it’s too late to even it up for Sordo. 

If we can last through today and not have to fight we can swing 
the whole show tomorrow with what we have. I know we can. Not 
well, maybe. Not as it should be, to be foolproof, not as we would 
have done; but using everybody we can swing it. If we don’t have 
to fig;ht today. God help us if we have to fight today. 

I don’t know any place better to lay up in the meantime than 
this. If we move now we only leave tracks. This is as good a place 
as any and if the worst gets to be the worst there are three ways 
out of this place. There is the dark then to come and from wherever 
we are in these hills, I can reach and do the bridge at daylight. I 
don’t know why I worried about it before. It seems easy enough 
now. I hope they get the planes up on time for once. I certainly 
hone that. Tomorrow is going to be a day with dust on the road. 

Well, today will be very interesting or very dull. Thank God 
we’ve got that cavalrv mount out and away from here. I don’t think 
even if they ride right up here they will go in the way those tracks 
are now. Thev’ll think he stopped and circled and they’ll pick up 
Pablo’s tracks. I wonder where the old swine will go. He’ll probably 
leave tracks like an old bull elk spooking out of the country and 
work way up and then when the snow melts circle back below. 
That horse certainly did things for him. Of course he may have just 
mucked off with him too. Well, he should be able to take care of 
himself. He’s been doing this a long time. I wouldn’t trust him 
farther than you can throw Mount Everest, though. 

I suppose it’s smarter to use these rocks and build a good blind 
for this gun than to make a proper emplacement for it. You’d be 
digging and get caught with your pants down if they come or 
if the planes come. She will hold this, the way she is, as long 
as it is a ny use to hold it, and anyway I can’t stay to fight. I 
have to get out of here with that stuff and I’m going to take 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


274 

Anselmo with me. Who would stay to cover us while we got 
away if we have to fight here? 

Just then, while he was watching all of the country that was 
visible, he saw the gypsy coming through the rocks to the left. 
He was walking with a loose, high-hipped, sloppy swing, his 
carbine was slung on his back, his brown face was grinning and 
he carried two big hares, one in each hand. He carried them by 
the legs, heads swinging. 

“Hola, Roberto,” he called cheerfully. 

Robert Jordan put his hand to his mouth, and the gypsy looked 
startled. He slid over behind the rocks to where Robert Jordan 
was crouched beside the brush-shielded automatic rifle. He 
crouched down and laid the hares in the snow. Robert Jordan 
looked up at him. 

“You hijo de la gran putal” he said softly. “Where the obscenity 
have you been?” 

“I tracked them,” the gypsy said. “I got them both. They had 
made love in the snow.” 

“And thy post?” 

“It was not for long,” the gypsy whispered. “What passes? 
Is there an alarm?” 

“There is cavalry out.” 

“Red ids!” the gypsy said. “Hast thou seen them?” 

“There is one at the camp now,” Robert Jordan said. “He came 
for breakfast.” 

“I thought I heard a shot or something like one,” the gypsy 
said. “I obscenity in the milk! Did he come through here?” 

“Here. Thy post.” 

“Ay, mi madrel” the gypsy said. “I am a poor, unlucky man.” 

“If thou wert not a gypsy, I would shoot thee.” 

“No, Roberto. Don’t say that. I am sorry. It was the hares. 
Before daylight I heard the male thumping in the snow. You 
cannot imagine what a debauch they were engaged in. I went 
toward the noise but they were gone. I followed the tracks in the 
snow and high up I found them together and slew them both. 
Feel the fatness of the two for this time of year. Think what the 
Pilar will do with those two. I am sorry, Roberto, as sorry as thee. 
Was the cavalryman killed?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


275 


“Yes.” 

“By thee.?” 

“Yes.” 

“Que tiol” the gypsy said in open flattery. “Thou art a veri- 
table phenomenon.” 

“Thy mother!” Robert Jordan said. He could not help grinning 
at the gypsy. “Take thy hares to camp and bring us up some 
breakfast.” 

He put a hand out and felt of the hares that lay limp, long, 
heavy, thick-furred, big-footed and long-eared in the snow, their 
round dark eyes open. 

“They are fat,” he said. 

“Fat!” the gypsy said. “There’s a tub of lard on the ribs of 
each one. In my life have I never dreamed of such hares.” 

“Go then,” Robert Jordan said, “and come quickly with the 
breakfast and bring to me the documentation of that requete. Ask 
Pilar for it.” 

“You are not angry with me, Roberto.?” 

“Not angry. Disgusted that you should leave your post. Sup- 
pose it had been a troop of cavalry.?” 

“Redios,” the gypsy said. “How reasonable you are.” 

“Listen to me. You cannot leave a post again like that. Never. 
I do not speak of shooting lightly.” 

“Of course not. And another thing. Never would such an oppor- 
tunity as the two hares present itself again. Not in the life of 
one man.” 

“Anda!” Robert Jordan said. “And hurry back.” 

The gypsy picked up the two hares and slipped back through 
the rocks and Robert Jordan looked out across the flat opening 
and the slopes of the hill below. Two crows circled overhead and 
then lit in a pine tree below. Another crow joined them and 
Robert Jordan, watching them, thought: those are my sentinels. 
As long as those are quiet there is no one coming through the 
trees. 

The gypsy, he thought. He is truly worthless. He has no 
political development, nor any discipline, and you could not rely 
on him for anything. But I need him for tomorrow. I have a use 
for him tomorrow. It’s odd to see a gypsy in a war. They should 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


276 

be exempted like conscientious objectors. Or as the physically and 
mentally unfit. They are worthless. But conscientious objectors 
weren’t exempted in this war. No one was exempted. It came 
to one and all alike. Well, it had come here now to this lazy outfit. 
They had it now. 

Agustin and Primitivo came up with the brush and Robert 
Jordan built a good blind for the automatic rifle, a ' blind that 
would conceal the gun from the air and that would look natural 
from the forest. He showed them where to place a man high in 
the rocks to the right where he could see all the country below 
and to the right, and another where he could command the only 
stretch where the left wall might be climbed. 

“Do not fire if you see any one from there,” Robert Jordan 
said. “Roll a rock down as a warning, a small rock, and signal 
to us with thy rifle, thus,” he lifted the rifle and held it over his 
head as though guarding it. “Thus for numbers,” he lifted the 
rifle up and down. “If they are dismounted point thy rifle muzzle 
at the ground. Thus. Do not fire from there until thou hearest 
the mdquina fire. Shoot at a man’s knees when you shoot from 
that height. If you hear me whisde twice on this whistle get 
down, keeping behind cover, and come to these rocks where the 
mdquina is.” 

Primitivo raised the rifle. 

“I understand,” he said. “It is very simple.” 

“Send first the small rock as a warning and indicate the direc- 
tion and the number. See that you are not seen.” 

“Yes,” Primitivo said. “If I can throw a grenade.?” 

“Not until the mdquina has spoken. It may be that cavalry will 
come searching for their comrade and still not try to enter. They 
may follow the tracks of Pablo. We do not want combat if it 
can be avoided. Above all that we should avoid it. Now get up 
there.” 

“Me voy," Primitivo said, and climbed up into the high rocks 
with his carbine. 

“Thou, Agustin,” Robert Jordan said. “What do you know of 
the gun.?” 

Agustin squatted there, tall, black, stubbly-joweled, with his 
sunken eyes and thin mouth and his big work-worn hands. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


277 


“Pues, to load it. To aim it. To shoot it. Nothing more.” 

“You must not fire until they are within fifty meters and only 
when you are sure they will be coming into the pass which leads 
to the cave,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Yes. How far is that?” 

“That rock.” 

“If there is an officer shoot him first. Then move the gun onto 
the others. Move very slowly. It takes little movement. I will 
teach Fernando to tap it. Hold it tight so that it does not jump 
and sight carefully and do not fire more than six shots at a 
time if you can help it. For the fire of the gun jumps upward. 
But each time fire at one man and then move from him to 
another. At a man on a horse, shoot at his belly.” 

“Yes.” 

“One man should hold the tripod still so that the gun does 
not jump. Thus. He will load the gun for thee.” 

“And where will you be?” 

“I will be here on the left. Above, where I can see all and I 
will cover thy left with this small maquina. Here. If they should 
come it would be possible to make a massacre. But you must not 
fire until they are that close.” 

“I believe that we could make a massacre. Menuda matanzal” 

“But I hope they do not come.” 

“If it were not for thy bridge we could make a massacre here 
and get out.” 

“It would avail nothing. That would serve no purpose. The 
bridge is a part of a plan to win the war. This would be nothing. 
This would be an incident. A nothing.” 

“Que va, nothing. Every fascist dead is a fascist less.” 

“Yes. But with this of the bridge we can take Segovia. The 
Capital of a Province. Think of that. It will be the first one we 
will take.” 

♦ “Thou believest in this seriously? That we can take Segovia?” 

“Yes. It is possible with the bridge blown correctly.” 

“I would like to have the massacre here and the bridge, too.” 

“Thou hast much appetite,” Robert Jordan told him. 

All this time he had been watching the crows. Now he saw 
one was watching something. The bird cawed and flew up. But 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


278 

the other crow still stayed in the tree. Robert Jordan looked up 
toward Primitivo’s place high in the rocks. He saw him watching 
out over the country below but he made no signal. Robert Jordan 
leaned forward and worked the lock on the automatic rifle, saw 
the round in the chamber and let the lock down. The crow was 
still there in the tree. The other circled wide over the snow and 
then settled again. In the sun and the warm wind the snow was 
falling from the laden branches of the pines. 

“I have a massacre for thee for tomorrow morning,” Robert 
Jordan said. “It is necessary to exterminate the post at the saw- 
mill.” 

“I am ready,” Agustin said. “Estoy listo.” 

“Also the post at the road mender’s hut below the bridge.” 

“For the one or for the other,” Agustin said, “Or for both.” 

“Not for both. They will be done at the same time,” Robert 
Jordan said. 

“Then for either one,” Agustin said. “Now for a long time 
have I wished for action in this war. Pablo has rotted us here 
with inaction.” 

Anselmo came up with the ax. 

“Do you wish more branches.?” he asked. “To me it seems well 
hidden.” 

“Not branches,” Robert Jordan said, “Two small trees that we 
can plant here and there to make it look more natural. There are 
not enough trees here for it to be truly natural.” 

“I will bring them.” 

“Cut them well back, so the stumps cannot be seen.” 

Robert Jordan heard the ax sounding in the woods behind him. 
He looked up at Primitivo above in the rocks and he looked down 
at the pines below across the clearing. The one crow was still 
there. Then he heard the first high, throbbing murmur of a plane 
coming. He looked up and saw it high and tiny and silver in 
the sun, seeming hardly to move in the high sky. 

“They cannot see us,” he said to Agustin. “But it is well to 
keep down. That is the second observation plane today,” 

“And those of yesterday?” Agustin asked. 

“They are like a bad dream now,” Robert Jordan said. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 279 

“They must be at Segovia. The bad dream waits there to 
become a reality.” 

The plane was out of sight now over the mountains but the 
sound of its motors still persisted. 

As Robert Jordan looked, he saw the crow fly up. He flew 
straight away through the trees without cawing. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 


“Get thee down,” Robert Jordan whispered to Agustin, and he 
turned his head and flicked his hand Down, Down, to Anselmo 
who was coming through the gap with a pine tree, carrying it 
over his shoulder like a Christmas tree. He saw the old man 
drop his pine tree behind a rock and then he was out of sight in 
the rocks and Robert Jordan was looking ahead across the open 
space toward the timber. He saw nothing and heard nothing but 
he could feel his heart pounding and then he heard the clack 
of stone on stone and the leaping, dropping clicks of a small rock 
falling. He turned his head to the right and looking up saw 
Primitivo’s rifle raised and lowered four times horizontally. Then 
there was nothing more to see but the white stretch in front of 
him with the circle of horse tracks and the timber beyond. 

“Cavalry,” he said softly to Agustm. 

Agustin looked at him and his dark, sunken cheeks widened 
at their base as he grinned. Robert Jordan noticed he was sweating. 
He reached over and put his hand on his shoulder. His hand 
was still there as they saw the four horsemen ride out of the 
timber and he felt the muscles in Agustin’s back twitch under 
his hand. 

One horseman was ahead and three rode behind. The one ahead 
was following the horse tracks. He looked down as he rode. The 
other three came behind him, fanned out through the timber. 
They were all watching carefully. Robert Jordan felt his heart 
beating against the snowy ground as he lay, his elbows spread 
wide and watched them over the sights of the automatic rifle. 

The man who was leading rode along the trail to where Pablo 
had circled and stopped. The others rode up to him and they all 
stopped. 

Robert Jordan saw them clearly over the blued steel barrel of 
the automatic rifle. He saw the faces of the men, the sabers 
hanging, the sweat-darkened flanks of the horses, and the cone- 

280 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


281 

like slope of the khaki capes, and the Navarrese slant of the khaki 
berets. The leader turned his horse directly toward the opening 
in the rocks where the gun was placed and Robert Jordan saw 
his young, sun- and wind-darkened face, his close-set eyes, hawk 
nose and the over-long wedge-shaped chin. 

Sitting his horse there, the horse’s chest toward Robert Jordan, 
the horse’s head high, the butt of the light automatic rifle project- 
ing forward from the scabbard at the right of the saddle, the 
leader pointed toward the opening where the gun was. 

Robert Jordan sunk his elbows into the ground and looked 
along the barrel at the four riders stopped there in the snow. 
Three of them had their automatic rifles out. Two carried them 
across the pommels of their saddles. The other sat his horse with 
the rifle swung out to the right, the butt resting against his hip. 

You hardly ever see them at such range, he thought. Not along 
the barrel of one of these do you see them like this. Usually the 
rear sight is raised and they seem miniatures of men and you 
have hell to make it carry up there; or they come running, flop- 
ping, running, and you beat a slope with fire or bar a certain 
street, or keep it on the windows; or far away you see them 
marching on a road. Only at the trains do you see them like this. 
Only then are they like now, and with four of these you can 
make them scatter. Over the gun sights, at this range, it makes 
them twice the size of men. 

Thou, he thought, looking at the wedge of the front sight 
placed now firm in the slot of the rear sight, the top of the wedge 
against the center of the leader’s chest, a little to the right of the 
scarlet device that showed bright in the morning sun against the 
khaki cape. Thou, he thought, thinking in Spanish now and 
pressing his fingers forward against the trigger guard to keep it 
away from where it would bring the quick, shocking, hurtling 
rush from the automatic rifle. Thou, he thought again, thou art 
dead now in thy youth. And thou, he thought, and thou, and 
thou. But let it not happen. Do not let it happen. 

He felt Agustin beside him start to cough, felt him hold it, 
choke and swallow. Then as he looked along the oiled blue of 
the barrel out through the opening between the branches, his 
finger still pressed forward against the trigger guard, he saw the 


282 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


leader turn his horse and point into the timber where Pablo’s 
trail led. The four of them trotted into the timber and Agustln 
said softly, “Cabrones!” 

Robert Jordan looked behind him at the rocks where Anselmo 
had dropped the tree. 

The gypsy, Rafael, was coming toward them through the rocks, 
carrying a pair of cloth saddlebags, his rifle slung on his back. 
Robert Jordan waved him down and the gypsy ducked out of 
sight. 

“We could have killed all four,” Agustm said quietly. He was 
still wet with sweat. 

“Yes,” Robert Jordan whispered. “But with the firing who 
knows what might have come.?” 

Just then he heard the noise of another rock falling and he 
looked around quickly. But both the gypsy and Anselmo were 
out of sight. He looked at his wrist watch and then up to where 
Primitivo was raising and lowering his rifle in what seemed an 
infinity of short jerks. Pablo has forty-five minutes’ start, Robert 
Jordan thought, and then he heard the noise of a body of cavalry 
coming. 

“No te apures,” he whispered to Agustfn. “Do not worry. They 
will pass as the others.” 

They came into sight trotting along the edge of the timber in 
column of twos, twenty mounted men, armed and uniformed as 
the others had been, their sabers swinging, their carbines in their 
holsters; and then they went down into the timber as the others 
had. 

“Tu ves?" Robert Jordan said to Agustfn. “Thou seest.?” 

“There were many,” Agustfn said. 

“These would we have had to deal with if we had destroyed the 
others,” Robert Jordan said very softly. His heart had quieted now 
and his shirt felt wet on his chest from the melting snow. There 
was a hollow feeling in his chest. 

The sun was bright on the snow and it was melting fast. He 
could see it hollowing away from the tree trunks and just ahead of 
the gun, before his eyes, the snow surface was damp and lacily 
fragile as the heat of the sun melted the top and the warmth of 
the earth breathed warmly up at the snow that lay upon it. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 283 

Robert Jordan looked up at Primitivo’s post and saw him signal, 
“Nothing,” crossing his two hands, palms down, 

Anselmo’s head showed above a rock and Robert Jordan mo- 
tioned him up. The old man slipped from rock to rock until 
he crept up and lay down flat beside the gun. 

“Many,” he said. “Many!” 

“I do not need the trees,” Robert Jordan said to him. “There 
is no need for further forestal improvement.” 

Both Anselmo and Agustin grinned. 

“This has stood scrutiny well and it would be dangerous to 
plant trees now because those people will return and perhaps they 
are not stupid.” 

He felt the need to talk that, with him, was the sign that there 
had just been much danger. He could always tell how bad it had 
been by the strength of the desire to talk that came after. 

“It was a good blind, eh?” he said. 

“Good,” said Agustin. “To obscenity with all fascism good. We 
could have killed the four of them. Didst thou see?” he said to 
Anselmo. 

“I saw.” 

“Thou,” Robert Jordan said to Anselmo. “Thou must go to the 
post of yesterday or another good post of thy selection to watch 
the road and report on all movement as of yesterday. Already we 
are late in that. Stay until dark. Then come in and we will send 
another.” 

“But the tracks that I will make?” 

“Go from below as soon as the snow is gone. The road will 
be muddied by the snow. Note if there has been much traffic 
of trucks or if there are tank tracks in the softness on the road. 
That is all we can tell until you are there to observe.” 

“With your permission?” the old man asked, 

“Surely.” 

“With your permission, would it not be better for me to go 
into La Granja and inquire there what passed last night and 
arrange for one to ^bserve today thus in the manner you have 
taught me? Such a one could report tonight or, better, I could 
go again to La Granja for the report.” 

“Have you no fear of encountering cavalry?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


284 

“Not when the snow is gone.” 

“Is there some one in La Granja capable o£ this?” 

“Yes. Of this, yes. It would be a woman. There are various 
women of trust in La Granja.” 

“I believe it,” Agustin said. “More, I know it, and several who 
serve for other purposes. You do not wish me to go?” 

“Let the old man go. You understand this gun and the day is 
not over.” 

“I will go when the snow melts,” Anselmo said. “And the snow 
is melting fast.” 

“What think you of their chance of catching Pablo?” Robert 
Jordan asked Agustin. 

“Pablo is smart,” Agustin said. “Do men catch a wise stag 
without hounds?” 

“Sometimes,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Not Pablo,” Agustin said. “Clearly, he is only a garbage of 
what he once was. But it is not for nothing that he is ahve and 
comfortable in these hills and able to drink himself to death 
while there are so many others that have died against a wall.” 

“Is he as smart as they say?” 

“He is much smarter.” 

“He has not seemed of great ability here.” 

“Como que no? If he were not of great ability he would have died 
last night. It seems to me you do not understand politics, Ingles, 
nor guerilla warfare. In politics and this other the first thing 
is to continue to exist. Look how he continued to exist last night. 
And the quantity of dung he ate both from me and from thee.” 

Now that Pablo was back in the movements of the unit, Robert 
Jordan did not wish to talk against him and as soon as he had 
uttered it he regretted saying the thing about his ability. He knew 
himself how smart Pablo was. It was Pablo who had seen in- 
stantly all that was wrong with the orders for the destruction of 
the bridge. He had made the remark only from dislike and he 
knew as he made it that it was wrong. It was part of the talking 
too much after a strain. So now he dropped the matter and said 
to Anselmo, “And to go into La Granja in daylight?” 

“It is not bad,” the old man said. “I will not go with a military 
band.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 285 

“Nor with a bell around his neck,” Agustin said. “Nor carry- 
ing a banner.” 

“How will you go?” 

“Above and down through the forest.” 

“But if they pick you up.” 

“I have papers.” 

“So have we all but thou must eat the wrong ones quickly.” 

Anselmo shook his head and tapped the breast pocket of his 
smock. 

“How many times have I contemplated that,” he said. “And 
never did I like to swallow paper.” 

“I have thought we should carry a little mustard on them all,” 
Robert Jordan said. “In my left breast pocket I carry our papers. 
In my right the fascist papers. Thus one does not make a mistake 
in an emergency.” 

It must have been bad enough when the leader of the first 
patrol of cavalry had pointed toward the entry because they were 
all talking very much. Too much, Robert Jordan thought. 

“But look, Roberto,” Agustin said. “They say the government 
moves further to the right each day. That in the Republic they 
no longer say Comrade but Senor and Sehora. Canst shift thy 
pockets?” 

“When it moves far enough to the right I will carry them in 
my hip pocket,” Robert Jordan said, “and sew it in the center.” 

“That they should stay in thy shirt,” Agustin said. “Are we 
to win this war and lose the revolution?” 

“Nay,” Robert Jordan said. “But if we do not win this war 
there will be no revolution nor any Republic nor any thou nor 
any me nor anything but the most grand carajo.” 

“So say I,” Anselmo said. “That we should win the war.” 

“And afterwards shoot the anarchists and the Communists and 
all this canalla except the good Republicans,” Agustin said. 

“That we should win this war and shoot nobody,” Anselmo 
said. “That we should govern justly and that all should par- 
ticipate in the benefits according as they have striven for them. 
And that those who have fought against us should be educated to 
see their error.” 

“We will have to shoot many,” Agustin said. “Many, many, 
many.” 


286 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


He thumped his closed right fist against the palm of his left 
hand. 

“That we should shoot none. Not even the leaders. That they 
should be reformed by work.” 

“I know the work I’d put them at,” Agustin said, and he picked 
up some snow and put it in his mouth. 

“What, bad one.?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“Two trades of the utmost brilhance.” 

“They are.?” 

Agustin put some more snow in his mouth and looked across 
the clearing where the cavalry had ridden. Then he spat the 
melted snow out. “Vaya. What a breakfast,” he said. “Where is 
the filthy gypsy.?” 

“What trades.?” Robert Jordan asked him. “Speak, bad mouth.” 

“Jumping from planes without parachutes,” Agustin said, and 
his eyes shone. “That for those that we care for. And being nailed 
to the tops of fence posts to be pushed over backwards for the 
others.” 

“That way of speaking is ignoble,” Anselmo said. “Thus we 
will never have a Republic.” 

“I would like to swim ten leagues in a strong soup made from 
the cojones of all of them,” Agustin said. “And when I saw those 
four there and thought that we might kill them I was like a mare 
in the corral waiting for the stallion.” 

“You know why we did not kill them, though?” Robert Jordan 
said quietly. 

“Yes,” Agustin said. “Yes. But the necessity was on me as it is on 
a mare in heat. You cannot know what it is if you have not felt it.” 

“You sweated enough,” Robert Jordan said. “I thought it was 
fear.” 

“Fear, yes,” Agustin said. “Fear and the other. And in this fife 
there is no stronger thing than the other.” 

Yes, Robert Jordan thought. We do it coldly but they do not, 
nor ever have. It is their extra sacrament. Their old one that they 
had before the new religion came from the far end of the Medi- 
terranean, the one they have never abandoned but only suppressed 
and hidden to bring it out again in wars and inquisitions. They 
are the people of the Auto de Fe; the act of faith. Kilfing is 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


287 

something one must do, but ours are different from theirs. And 
you, he thought, you have never been corrupted by it? You never 
had it in the Sierra? Nor at Usera? Nor through all the time in 
Estremadura? Nor at any time? Que va, he told himself. At 
every train. 

Stop making dubious literature about the Berbers and the old 
Iberians and admit that you have liked to kill as all who are 
soldiers by choice have enjoyed it at some time whether they 
lie about it or not. Anselmo does not like to because he is a 
hunter, not a soldier. Don’t idealize him, either. Hunters kill 
animals and soldiers kill men. Don’t lie to yourself, he thought. 
Nor make up literature about it. You have been tainted with it 
for a long time now. And do not think against Anselmo either. 
He is a Christian. Something very rare in Catholic countries. 

But with Agustm I had thought it was fear, he thought. That 
natural fear before action. So it was the other, too. Of course, he 
may be bragging now. There was plenty of fear. I felt the fear 
under my hand. Well, it was time to stop talking. 

“See if the gypsy brought food,” he said to Anselmo. “Do not 
let him come up. He is a fool. Bring it yourself. And however 
much he brought, send back for more. I am hungry.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 


Now THE morning was late May, the sky was high and clear and 
the wind blew warm on Robert Jordan’s shoulders. The snow 
was going fast and they were eating breakfast. There v/ere two 
big sandwiches of meat and the goaty cheese apiece, and Robert 
Jordan had cut thick slices of onion with his clasp knife and put 
them on each side of the meat and cheese between the chunks 
of bread. 

“You will have a breath that will carry through the forest to 
the fascists,” Agustin said, his own mouth full. 

“Give me the wineskin and I will rinse the mouth,” Robert 
Jordan said, his mouth full of meat, cheese, onion and chewed 
bread. 

He had never been hungrier and he filled his mouth with 
wine, faintly tarry-tasting from the leather bag, and swallowed. 
Then he took another big mouthful of wine, hfting the bag up 
to let the jet of wine spurt into the back of his mouth, the wine- 
skin touching the needles of the blind of pine branches that cov- 
ered the automatic rifle as he lifted his hand, his head leaning 
against the pine branches as he bent it back to let the wine 
run down. 

“Dost thou want this other sandwich.?” Agustin asked him, hand- 
ing it toward him across the gun. 

“No. Thank you. Eat it.” 

“I cannot. I am not accustomed to eat in the morning.” 

“You do not want it, truly.?” 

“Nay. Take it.” 

Robert Jordan took it and laid it on his lap while he got the 
onion out of his side jacket pocket where the grenades were and 
opened his knife to slice it. He cut off a thin sliver of the surface 
that had dirtied in his pocket, then cut a thick slice. An outer 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 289 

segment fell and he picked it up and bent the circle together and 
put it into the sandwich. 

“Eatest thou always onions for breakfast .f*” Agustm asked. 

“When there are any.” 

“Do all in thy country do this.?” 

“Nay,” Robert Jordan said. “It is looked on badly there.” 

“I am glad,” Agustm said. “I had always considered America 
a civilized country.” 

“What hast thou against the onion.?” 

“The odor. Nothing more. Otherwise it is like the rose.” 

Robert Jordan grinned at him with his mouth full. 

“Like the rose,” he said. “Mighty like the rose. A rose is a rose 
is an onion.” 

“Thy onions are affecting thy brain,” Agustm said. “Take care.” 

“An onion is an onion is an onion,” Robert Jordan said cheerily 
and, he thought, a stone is a stein is a rock is a boulder is a 
pebble. 

“Rinse thy mouth with wine,” Agustm said. “Thou art very 
rare, Ingles. There is great difference between thee and the last 
dynamiter who worked with us.” 

“There is one great difference.” 

“Tell it to me.” 

“I am alive and he is dead,” Robert Jordan said. Then: what’s 
the matter with you.? he thought. Is that the way to talk.? Does 
food make you that slap happy.? What are you, drunk on onions? 
Is that all it means to you, now.? It never meant much, he told 
himself truly. You tried to make it mean something, but it never 
did. There is no need to lie in the time that is left. 

“No,” he said, seriously now. “That one was a man who had 
suffered greatly.” 

“And thou.? Hast thou not suffered?” 

“No,” said Robert Jordan. “I am of those who suffer little.” 

“Me also,” Agustin told him. “There are those who suffer and 
those who do not. I suffer very little.” 

“Less bad,” Robert Jordan tipped up the wineskin again. “And 
with this, less.” 

“I suffer for others.” 

“As all good men should,” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


290 

“But for myself very little.” 

“Hast thou a wife.?” 

“No.” 

“Me neither.” • 

“But now you have the Maria.” 

“Yes.” 

“There is a rare thing,” Agustin said. “Since she came to us 
at the train the Pilar has kept her away from all as fiercely as 
though she were in a convent of Carmelites. You cannot imagine 
with what fierceness she guarded her. You come, and she gives 
her to thee as a present. How does that seem to thee.?” 

“It was not thus.” 

“How was it, then?” 

“She has put her in my care.” 

“And thy care is to pder with her all night?” 

“With luck.” 

“What a manner to care for one.” 

“You do not understand that one can take good care of one 
thus?” 

“Yes, but such care could have been furnished by any one of 
us.” 

“Let us not talk of it any more,” Robert Jordan said. “I care 
for her seriously.” 

“Seriously?” 

“As there can be nothing more serious in this world.” 

“And afterwards? After this of the bridge?” 

“She goes with me.” 

“Then,” Agustm said. “That no one speaks of it further and 
that the two of you go with all luck.” 

He lifted the leather wine bag and took a long pull, then handed 
it to Robert Jordan. 

“One thing more, IngUs” he said. 

“Of course.” 

“I have cared much for her, too.” 

Robert Jordan put his hand on his shoulder. 

“Much,” Agustm said. “Much. More than one is able to 
imagine.” 

“I can imagine.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


291 

“She has made an impression on me that does not dissipate.” 

“I can imagine.” 

“Look. I say this to thee in all seriousness.” 

“Say it.” 

“I have never touched her nor had anything to do with her 
but I care for her greatly. Ingles, do not treat her Hghtly. Because 
she sleeps with thee she is no whore.” 

“I will care for her.” 

“I believe thee. But more. You do not understand how such 
a girl would be if there had been no revolution. You have much 
responsibility. This one, truly, has suffered much. She is not as we 
are.” 

“I will marry her.” 

“Nay. Not that. There is no need for that under the revolution. 
But—” he nodded his head— “it would be better.” 

“I will marry her,” Robert Jordan said and could feel his throat 
swelling as he said it. “I care for her greatly.” 

“Later,” Agustin said. “When it is convenient. The important 
thing is to have the intention.” 

“I have it.” 

“Listen,” Agustin said. “I am speaking too much of a matter 
in which I have no right to intervene, but hast thou known many 
girls of this country?” 

“A few.” 

“Whores?” 

“Some who were not.” 

“How many?” 

“Several.” 

“And did you sleep with them?” 

“No.” 

“You see?” 

“Yes.” 

“What I mean is that this Maria does not do this lightly.” 

“Nor I.” 

“If I thought you did I would have shot you last night as you 
lay with her. For this we kill much here.” 

“Listen, old one,” Robert Jordan said. “It is because of the lack 
of time that there has been informality. What we do not have 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


292 

time. Tomorrow we must fight. To me that is nothing. But 
roFlhe Maria and me it means that we must live all of our life 
in this time.” 

“And a day and a night is litde time,” Agustm said. 

“Yes. But there has been yesterday and the night before and 
last night.” 

“Look,” Agustin said. “If I can aid thee.” 

“No. We are all right.” 

“If I could do anything for thee or for the cropped head ” 

“No.” 

“Truly, there is little one man can do for another.” 

“No. There is much.” 

“What.?” 

“No matter what passes today and tomorrow in respect to com- 
bat, give me thy confidence and obey even though the orders may 
appear wrong.” 

“You have my confidence. Since this of the cavalry and the 
sending away of the horse.” 

“That was nothing. You see that we are working for one thing. 
To win the war. Unless we win, all other things are futde. Tomor- 
row we have a thing of great importance. Of true importance. Also 
we will have combat. In combat there must be discipline. For many 
things are not as they appear. Discipline must come from trust and 
confidence.” 

Agustm spat on the ground. 

“The Maria and all such things are apart,” he said. “That you 
and the Maria should make use of what time there is as two 
human beings. If I can aid thee I am at thy orders. But for the 
thing of tomorrow I will obey thee blindly. If it is necessary that 
one should die for the thing of tomorrow one goes gladly and with 
the heart light.” 

“Thus do I feel,” Robert Jordan said. “But to hear it from thee 
brings pleasure.” 

“And more,” Agustin said. “That one above,” he pointed toward 
Primitivo, “is a dependable value. The Pilar is much, much more 
than thou canst imagine. The old man Anselmo, also. Andres also. 
Eladio also. Very quiet, but a dependable element. And Fernando. 
I do not know how thou hast appreciated him. It is true he is 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


293 

heavier than mercury. He is fuller of boredom than a steer drawing 
a cart on the highroad. But to fight and to do as he is told. Es muy 
hombrel Thou wilt see.” 

“We are lucky.” 

“No. We have two weak elements. The gypsy and Pablo. But 
the band of Sordo are as much better than we are as we are better 
than goat manure.” 

“All is well then.” 

“Yes,” Agustin said. “But I wish it was for today.” 

“Me, too. To finish with it. But it is not.” 

“Do you think it will be bad.?” 

“It can be.” 

“But thou art very cheerful now, Ingles.” 

“Yes.” 

“Me also. In spite of this of the Maria and all.” 

“Do you know why.?” 

“No.” 

“Me neither. Perhaps it is the day. The day is good.” 

“Who knows.? Perhaps it is that we will have action.” 

“I think it is that,” Robert Jordan said. “But not today. Of all 
things; of all importance we must avoid it today.” 

As he spoke he heard something. It was a noise far off that came 
above the sound of the warm wind in the trees. He could not be 
sure and he held his mouth open and listened, glancing up at 
Primitivo as he did so. He thought he heard it but then it was 
gone. The wind was blowing in the pines and now Robert Jordan 
strained all of himself to hsten. Then he heard it faintly coming 
down the wind. 

“It is nothing tragic with me,” he heard Agustin say. “That I 
should never have the Maria is nothing. I will go with the whores 
as always.” 

“Shut up,” he said, not listening, and lying beside him, his head 
having been turned away. Agustin looked over at him suddenly. 

“Que pasa?” he asked. 

Robert Jordan put his hand over his own mouth and went on 
listening. There it came again. It came faint, muted, dry and far 
away. But there was no mistaking it now. It was the precise, crack- 
hng, curling roll of automatic rifle fire. It sounded as though pack 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


294 

after pack of miniature firecrackers were going off at a distance 
that was almost out of hearing. 

Robert Jordan looked up at Primitivo who had his head up now, 
his face looking toward them, his hand cupped to his ear. As he 
looked Primitivo pointed up the mountain toward the highest 
country. 

“They are fighting at El Sordo’s,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Then let us go to aid them,” Agusdn said. “Collect the people. 
Vamonos!’ 

“No,” Robert Jordan said. “We stay here.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 


Robert Jordan looked up at where Primitivo stood now in his 
lookout post, holding his rifle and pointing. He nodded his head 
but the man kept pointing, putting his hand to his ear and then 
pointing insistently and as though he could not possibly have been 
understood. 

“Do you stay with this gun and unless it is sure, sure, sure that 
they are coming in do not fire. And then not until they reach that 
shrub,” Robert Jordan pointed. “Do you understand.?” 

“Yes. But ” 

“No but. I will explain to thee later. I go to Primitivo.” 

Anselmo was by him and he said to the old man: 

“Viejo, stay there with Agustin with the gun.” He spoke slowly 
and unhurriedly. “He must not fire unless cavalry is actually en- 
tering. If they merely present themselves he must let them alone 
as we did before. If he must fire, hold the legs of the tripod firm 
for him and hand him the pans when they empty.” 

“Good,” the old man said. “And La Granja.?” 

“Later.” 

Robert Jordan climbed up, over and around the gray boulders 
that were wet now under his hands as he pulled himself up. The 
sun was melting the snow on them fast. The tops of the boulders 
were drying and as he climbed he looked across the country and 
saw the pine woods and the long open glade and the dip of the 
country before the high mountains beyond. Then he stood beside 
Primitivo in a hollow behind two boulders and the short, brown- 
faced man said to him, “They are attacking Sordo. What is it that 
we do.?” 

“Nothing,” Robert Jordan said. 

He heard the firing clearly here and as he looked across the coun- 
try, he saw, far off, across the distant valley where the country rose 
steeply again, a troop of cavalry ride out of the timber and cross the 
snowy slope riding uphill in the direction of the firing. He saw the 
oblong double line of men and horses dark against the snow as they 

295 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


296 

forced at an angle up the hill. He watched the double line top the 
ridge and go into the farther timber. 

“We have to aid them,” Primitivo said. His voice was dry and 
flat. 

“It is impossible,” Robert Jordan told him. “I have expected this 
all morning.” 

“How.?” 

“They went to steal horses last night. The snow stopped and 
they tracked them up there.” 

“But we have to aid them,” Primitivo said. “We cannot leave 
them alone to this. Those are our comrades.” 

Robert Jordan put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. 

“We can do nothing,” he said. “If we could I would do it.” 

“There is a way to reach there from above. We can take that way 
with the horses and the two guns. This one below and thine. We 
can aid them thus.” 

“Listen—” Robert Jordan said. 

“That is what I listen to,” Primitivo said. 

The firing was rolling in overlapping waves. Then they heard the 
noise of hand grenades heavy and sodden in the dry rolling of the 
automatic rifle fire. 

“They are lost,” Robert Jordan said. “They were lost when the 
snow stooped. If we go there we are lost, too. It is impossible to 
divide what force we have.” 

There was a gray stubble of beard stippled over Primitivo’s jaws, 
his lip and his neck. The rest of his face was flat brown with a 
broken, flattened nose and deep-set gray eyes, and watching him 
Robert Jordan saw the stubble twitching at the corners of his 
mouth and over the cords of his throat. 

“Listen to it,” he said. “It is a massacre.” 

“If they have surrounded the hollow it is that,” Robert Jordan 
said. “Some may have gotten out.” 

“Coming on them now we could take them from behind,” Primi- 
tivo said. “Let four of us go with the horses.” 

“And then what.? What happens after you take them from 
behind.?” 

“We join with Sordo.” 

“To die there.? Look at the sun. The day is long.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS / 297 ^ 

The sky was high and cloudless and the sun was hot oiTTrheir 
backs. There were big bare patches now on the southern slope 
of the open glade below them and the snow was all dropped from 
the pine trees. The boulders below them that had been wet as the 
snow melted were steaming faintly now in the hot sun. 

“You have to stand it,” R obert Jordan said. “Hay que aguantarse. 
There are things like this in a war.” 

“But there is nothing we can do.? Truly?” Primitivo looked at 
him and Robert Jordan knew he trusted him. “Thou couldst not 
send me and another with the small machine gun?” 

“It would be useless,” Robert Jordan said. 

He thought he saw something that he was looking for but it was 
a hawk that slid down into the wind and then rose above the line 
of the farthest pine woods. “It would be useless if we all went,” he 
said. 

Just then the firing doubled in intensity and in it was the heavy 
bumping of the hand grenades. 

“Oh, obscenity them,” Primitivo said with an absolute devout- 
ness of blasphemy, tears in his eyes and his cheeks twitching. “Oh, 
God and the Virgin, obscenity them in the milk of their filth.” 

' Calm thyself,” Robert Jordan said. “You will be fighting them 
soon enough. Here comes the woman.” 

Pilar was climbing up to them, making heavy going of it in the 
boulders. 

Primitivo kept saying, “Obscenity them. Oh, God and the Virgin, 
befoul them,” each time the firing rolled down the wind, and Rob- 
ert Jordan climbed down to help Pilar up. 

“Que tal, woman,” he said, taking hold of both her wrists and 
hoisting as she climbed heavily over the last boulder. 

“Thy binoculars,” she said and lifted their strap over her head. 
“So it has come to Sordo?” 

“Yes.” 

“Pobre," she said in commiseration. “Poor Sordo.” 

She was breathing heavily from the climb and she took hold of 
Robert Jordan’s hand and gripped it tight in hers as she looked out 
over the country. 

“How does the combat seem?” 

“Bad. Very bad.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


298 

“He’s jodido?” 

“I believe so.” 

"Pobre," she said. “Doubtless because of the horses.?” 

“Probably.” 

“Pobre,” Pilar said. Then, “Rafael recounted me all of an entire 
novel of dung about cavalry. What came.?” 

“A patrol and part of a squadron.” 

“Up to what point.?” 

Robert Jordan pointed out where the patrol had stopped and 
showed her where the gun was hidden. From where they stood 
they could just see one of Agustm’s boots protruding from the 
rear of the blind. 

“The gypsy said they rode to where the gun muzzle pressed 
against the chest of the horse of the leader,” Pilar said. “What a 
race! Thy glasses were in the cave.” 

“Have you packed.?” 

“All that can be taken. Is there news of Pablo?” 

“He was forty minutes ahead of the cavalry. They took his trail.” 

Pilar grinned at him. She still held his hand. Now she dropped 
it. “They’ll never see him,” she said. “Now for Sordo. Can we do 
anything?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Pobre,” she said. “I was very fond of Sordo. Thou art sure, sure 
that he is jodido?” 

“Yes. I have seen much cavalry.” 

“More than were here?” 

“Another full troop on their way up there.” 

“Listen to it,” Pilar said. “Pobi e, pobre Sordo.” 

They listened to the firing. 

“Primitivo wanted to go up there,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Art thou crazy?” Pilar said to the flat-faced man. “What kind of 
locos are we producing around here?” 

“I wish to aid them.” 

“Que va,” Pilar said. “Another romantic. Dost thou not believe 
thou wilt die quick enough here without useless voyages?” 

Robert Jordan looked at her, at the heavy brown face with the 
high Indian cheekbones, the wide-set dark eyes and the laughing 
mouth with the heavy, bitter upper Up. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 299 

“Thou must act like a man,” she said to Primitivo. “A grown 
man. You with your gray hairs and all.” 

“Don’t joke at me,” Primitivo said sullenly. “If a man has a Uttle 
heart and a little imagination ” 

“He should learn to control them,” Pilar said. “Thou wilt die soon 
enough with us. There is no need to seek that with strangers. As 
for thy imagination. The gypsy has enough for all. What a novel 
he told me.” 

“If thou hadst seen it thou wouldst not call it a novel,” Primitivo 
said. “There was a moment of great gravity.” 

“Que va,” Pilar said. “Some cavalry rode here and they rode away. 
And you all make yourselves a heroism. It is to this we have come 
with so much inaction.” 

“And this of Sordo is not grave?” Primitivo said contemptuously 
now. He suffered visibly each time the firing came down the wind 
and he wanted either to go to the combat or have Pilar go and 
leave him alone. 

“Total, que?” Pilar said. “It has come so it has come. Don’t lose 
thy cojones for the misfortune of another.” 

“Go defile thyself,” Primitivo said. “There are women of a 
stupidity and brutality that is insupportable.” 

“In order to support and aid those men poorly equipped for pro- 
creation,” Pilar said, “if there is nothing to see I am going.” 

Just then Robert Jordan heard the plane high overhead. He looked 
up and in the high sky it looked to be the same observation plane 
that he had seen earlier in the morning. Now it was returning from 
the direction of the lines and it was moving in the direction of the 
high country where El Sordo was being attacked. 

“There is the bad luck bird,” Pilar said. “Will it see what goes on 
there?” 

“Surely,” Robert Jordan said. “If they are not blind.” 

They watched the plane moving high and silvery and steady in 
the sunlight. It was coming from the left and they could see the 
round disks of light the two propellers made. 

“Keep down,” Robert Jordan said. 

Then the plane was overhead, its shadows passing over the open 
glade, the throbbing reaching its maximum of portent. Then it was 
past and headed toward the top of the valley. They watched it go 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


300 

steadily on its course until it was just out of sight and then they saw 
it coming back in a wide dipping circle, to circle twice over the high 
country and then disappear in the direction of Segovia. 

Robert Jordan looked at Pilar. There was perspiration on her fore- 
head and she shook her head. She had been holding her lower Up 
between her teeth. 

“For each one there is something,” she said. “For me it is those.” 

“Thou hast not caught my fear.?” Primitivo said sarcastically. 

“Nay,” she put her hand on his shoulder. “Thou hast no fear to 
catch. I know that. I am sorry I joked too roughly with thee. We are 
all in the same caldron.” Then she spoke to Robert Jordan. “I will 
send up food and wine. Dost need anything more.?” 

“Not in this moment. Where are the others.?” 

“Thy reserve is intact below with the horses,” she grinned. “Every- 
thing is out of sight. Everything to go is ready. Maria is with thy 
material.” 

“If by any chance we should have aviation keep her in the cave.” 

“Yes, my Lord Ingles," Pilar said. "Thy gypsy (I give him to 
thee) I have sent to gather mushrooms to cook with the hares. There 
are many mushrooms now and it seemed to me we might as well eat 
the hares although they would be better tomorrow or the day after.” 

“I think it is best to eat them,” Robert Jordan said, and Pilar put 
her big hand on his shoulder where the strap of the submachine gun 
crossed his chest, then reached up and mussed his hair with her 
fingers. “What an Ingles,” Pilar said. “I will send the Maria with 
the puchero when they are cooked.” 

The firing from far away and above had almost died out and now 
there was only an occasional shot. 

“You think it is over?” Pilar asked. 

“No,” Robert Jordan said. “From the sound that we have heard 
they have attacked and been beaten off. Now I would say the at- 
tackers have them surrounded. They have taken cover and they 
wait for the planes.” 

Pilar spoke to Primitivo, “Thou. Dost understand there was no 
intent to insult thee?” 

"Ya lo se," said Primitivo. “I have put up with worse than that 
from thee. Thou hast a vile tongue. But watch thy mouth, woman. 
Sordo was a good comrade of mine.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


301 

“And not of mine?” Pilar asked him. “Listen, flat face. In war one 
cannot say what one feels. We have enough of our own without 
taking Sordo’s.” 

Primitivo was still sullen. 

“You should take a physic,” Pilar told him. “Now I go to prepare 
the meal.” 

“Did you bring the documentation of that requete?” Robert Jordan 
asked her. 

“How stupid I am,” she said. “I forgot it. I will send the Maria.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 


It WAS three o’clock in the afternoon before the planes came. The 
snow had all been gone by noon and the rocks were hot now in the 
sun. There were no clouds in the sky and Robert Jordan sat in the 
rocks with his shirt off browning his back in the sun and reading 
the letters that had been in the pockets of the dead cavalryman. 
From time to time he would stop reading to look across the open 
slope to the line of the timber, look over the high country above and 
then return to the letters. No more cavalry had appeared. At inter- 
vals there would be the sound of a shot from the direction of El 
Sordo’s camp. But the firing was desultory. 

From examining his military papers he knew the boy was from 
Tafalla in Navarra, twenty-one years old, unmarried, and the son of 
a blacksmith. His regiment was the Nth cavalry, which surprised 
Robert Jordan, for he had believed that regiment to be in the North. 
He was a Carlist, and he had been wounded at the fighting for 
Irun at the start of the war. 

I’ve probably seen him run through the streets ahead of the bulls 
at the Feria in Pamplona, Robert Jordan thought. You never kill 
any one that you want to kill in a war, he said to himself. Well, 
hardly ever, he amended and went on reading the letters. 

The first letters he read were very formal, very carefully written 
and dealt almost entirely with local happenings. They were from 
his sister and Robert Jordan learned that everything was all right in 
Tafalla, that father was well, that mother was the same as always 
but with certain complaints about her back, that she hoped he was 
well and not in too great danger and she was happy he was doing 
away with the Reds to liberate Spain from the domination of the 
Marxist hordes. Then there was a list of those boys from Tafalla 
who had been killed or badly wounded since she wrote last. She 
mentioned ten who were killed. That is a great many for a town 
the size of Tafalla, Robert Jordan thought. 

302 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


303 

There was quite a lot of religion in the letter and she prayed to 
Saint Anthony, to the Blessed Virgin of Pilar, and to other Virgins 
to protect him and she wanted him never to forget that he was also 
protected by the Sacred Heart of Jesus that he wore still, she trusted, 
at all times over his own heart where it had been proven innumer- 
able— this was underlined— times to have the power of stopping 
bullets. She was as always his loving sister Concha. 

This letter was a little stained around the edges and Robert Jor- 
dan put it carefully back with the military papers and opened a letter 
with a less severe handwriting. It was from the boy’s novia, his 
fiancee, and it was quietly, formally, and completely hysterical with 
concern for his safety. Robert Jordan read it through and then put 
all the letters together with the papers into his hip pocket. He did 
not want to read the other letters. 

I guess I’ve done my good deed for today, he said to himself. I 
guess you have all right, he repeated. 

“What are those you were reading.?” Primitivo asked him. 

“The documentation and the letters of that requete we shot this 
morning. Do you want to see it.?” 

“I can’t read,” Primitivo said. “Was there anything inter- 
esting.?” 

“No,” Robert Jordan told him. “They are personal letters.” 

“How are things going where he came from.? Can you tell from 
the letters.?” 

“They seem to be going all right,” Robert Jordan said. “There are 
many losses in his town.” He looked down to where the blind for 
the automatic rifle had been changed a little and improved after the 
snow melted. It looked convincing enough. He looked off across 
the country. 

“From what town is he.?” Primitivo asked. 

“Tafalla,” Robert Jordan told him. 

All right, he said to himself. I’m sorry, if that does any good. 

It doesn’t, he said to himself. 

All right then, drop it, he said to himself. 

All right, it’s dropped. 

But it would not drop that easily. How many is that you have 
killed.? he asked himself. I don’t know. Do you think you have a 
right to kill any one.? No. But I have to. How many of those you 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


304 

have killed have been real fascists? Very few. But they are all the 
enemy to whose force we are opposing force. But you hke the people 
of Navarra better than those of any other part of Spain. Yes. And 
you kill them. Yes. If you don’t believe it go down there to the 
camp. Don’t you know it is wrong to kill? Yes. But you do it? Yes. 
And you still believe absolutely that your cause is right? Yes. 

It is right, he told himself, not reassuringly, but proudly. I beheve 
in the people and their right to govern themselves as they wish. 
But you mustn’t believe in killing, he told himself. You must do it 
as a necessity but you must not believe in it. If you beheve in it the 
whole thing is wrong. 

But how many do you suppose you have killed? I don’t know 
because I won’t keep track. But do you know? Yes. How many? 
You can’t be sure how many. Blowing the trains you kill many. 
Very many. But you can’t be sure. But of those you are sure of? 
More than twenty. And of those how many were real fascists? Two 
that I am sure of. Because I had to shoot them when we took them 
prisoners at Usera. And you did not mind that? No. Nor did you 
. hke It? No. I decided never to do it again. I have avoided it. I have 
avoided killing those who are unarmed. 

Listen, he told himself. You better cut this out. This is very bad 
for you and for your work. Then himself said back to him, You 
hsten, see? Because you are doing something very serious and I have 
to see you understand it all the time. I have to keep you straight in 
your head. Because if you are not absolutely straight in your head 
you have no right to do the things you do for all of them are crimes 
and no man has a right to take another man’s hfe unless it is to 
prevent something worse happening to other people. So get it straight 
and do not lie to yourself. 

But I won’t keep a count of people I have killed as though it were 
a trophy record or a disgusting business Hke notches in a gun, he 
told himself. I have a right to not keep count and I have a right to 
forget them. 

No, himself said. You have no^igH to forget anything. You have 
U no right to shut your eyes to any of it nor any right to forget any 
of it nor to soften it nor to change it. 

Shut up, he told himself. You’re getting awfully pompous. 

Nor ever to deceive yourself about it, himself went on. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


305 

All right, he told himself. Thanks for all the good advice and is 
it all right for me to love Maria? 

Yes, himself said. 

Even if there isn’t supposed to be any such thing as love in a purely 
materialistic conception of society? 

Since when did you ever have any such conception ? himself asked. 
Never. And you never could have. You’re not a real Marxist and 
you know it. You believe in Liberty, Equality and Fraternity. You 
believe in Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. Don’t ever 
kid yourself with too much dialectics. They are for some but not for 
you. You have to know them in order not to be a sucker. You have 
put many things in abeyance to win a war. If this war is lost all 
of those things are lost. 

But afterwards you can discard what you do not believe in. There 
is plenty you do not believe in and plenty that you do believe in. 

And another thing. Don’t ever kid yourself about loving some 
one. It is j ust that most people are not lucky enough ever to have it 
You never had it before and now you have it. What you have with' 
Maria, whether it lasts just through today and a part of tomorrow, 
or whether it lasts for a long life is the most important thing that 
can happen to a human being. There will always be people who say 
it does not exist because they cannot have it. But I tell you it is true 
and that you have it and that you are lucky even if you die tomor- 
row. 

Cut out the dying stuff, he said to himself. That’s not the way we 
talk. That’s the way our friends the anarchists talk. Whenever things 
get really bad they want to set fire to something and to die. It’s a 
very odd kind of mind they have. Very odd. Well, we’re getting 
through today, old timer, he told himself. It’s nearly three o’clock 
now and there is going to be some food sooner or later. They are 
still shooting up at Sordo’s, which means that they have him sur- 
rounded and are waiting to bring up more people, probably. Though 
they have to make it before dark. 

I wonder what it is like up at Sordo’s. That’s what we all have to 
expect, given enough time. I imagine it is not too jovial up at Sordo’s. 
We certainly got Sordo into a fine jam with that horse business. 
How does it go in Spanish? Un callejon sin salida. A passageway 
with no exit. I suppose I could go through with it all right. You only 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


306 

have to do it once and it is soon over with. But wouldn’t it be luxury 
to fight in a war some time where, when you were surrounded, you 
could surrender? Estamos copados. We are surrounded. That was the 
great panic cry of this war. Then the next thing was that you were 
shot; with nothing bad before if you were lucky. Sordo wouldn’t 
be lucky that way. Neither would they when the time ever came. 

It was three o’clock. Then he heard the far-off, distant throbbing 
and, looking up, he saw the planes. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 


El Sordo was making his fight on a hilltop. He did not like this 
hill and when he saw it he thought it had the shape o£ a chancre. 
But he had had no choice except this hill and he had picked it as 
far away as he could see it and galloped for it, the autornatic rifle 
heavy on his back, the horse laboring, barrel heaving between his 
thighs, the sack of grenades swinging against one side, the sack of 
automatic rifle pans banging against the other, and Joaquin and 
Ignacio halting and firing, halting and firing to give him time to 
get the gun in place. 

There had still been snow then, the snow that had ruined them, 
and when his horse was hit so that he wheezed in a slow, jerking, 
climbing stagger up the last part of the crest, splattering the snow 
with a bright, pulsing jet, Sordo had hauled him along by the bridle, 
the reins over his shoulder as he climbed. He climbed as hard as he 
could with the bullets spatting on the rocks, with the two sacks 
heavy on his shoulders, and then, holding the horse by the mane, had 
shot him quickly, expertly, and tenderly just where he had needed him, 
so that the horse pitched, head forward down to plug a gap between 
two rocks. He had gotten the gun to firing over the horse’s back 
and he fired two pans, the gun clattering, the empty shells pitching 
into the snow, the smell of burnt hair from the burnt hide where 
the hot muzzle rested, him firing at what came up to the hill, forcing 
them to scatter for cover, while all the time there was a chill in his 
back from not knowing what was behind him. Once the last of the 
five men had reached the hilltop the chill went out of his back and 
he had saved the pans he had left until he would need them. 

There were two more horses dead along the slope and three more 
were dead here on the hilltop. He had only succeeded in stealing three 
horses last night and one had bolted when they tried to mount him 
bareback in the corral at the camp when the first shooting had 
started. 

Of the five men who had reached the hilltop three were wounded. 

307 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


308 

Sordo was wounded in the calf of his leg and in two places in his 
left arm. He was very thirsty, his wounds had stiffened, and one 
of the wounds in his left arm was very painful. He also had a bad 
headache and as he lay waiting for the planes to come he thought 
of a joke in Spanish. It was, “Hay que tomar la muerte como si fuera 
aspirina,” which means, “You will have to take death as an aspirin.” 
But he did not make the joke aloud. He grinned somewhere inside 
the pain in his head and inside the nausea that came whenever he 
moved his arm and looked around at what there was left of his band. 

The five men were spread out like the points of a five-pointed star. 
They had dug with their knees and hands and made mounds in 
front of their heads and shoulders with the dirt and piles of stones. 
Using this cover, they were linking the individual mounds up with 
stones and dirt. Joaquin, who was eighteen years old, had a steel 
helmet that he dug with and he passed dirt in it. 

He had gotten this helmet at the blowing up of the train. It had 
a bullet hole through it and every one had always joked at him for 
keeping it. But he had hammered the jagged edges of the bullet hole 
smooth and driven a wooden plug into it and then cut the plug of! 
and smoothed it even with the metal inside the helmet. 

When the shooting started he had clapped this helmet on his head 
so hard it banged his head as though he had been hit with a cas- 
serole and, in the last lung-aching, leg-dead, mouth-dry, bullet-spat- 
ting, bullet-cracking, bullet-singing run up the final slope of the hill 
after his horse was killed, the helmet had seemed to weigh a great 
amount and to ring his bursting forehead with an iron band. But he 
had kept it. Now he dug with it in a steady, almost machineUke 
desperation. He had not yet been hit. 

“It serves for something finally,” Sordo said to him in his deep, 
throaty voice. 

“Resistir y jortificar es veneer” Joaquin said, his mouth stiff with 
the dryness of fear which surpassed the normal thirst of battle. It 
was one of the slogans of the Communist party and it meant, “Hold 
^ out and fortify, and you will win.” ^ 

Sordo looked away and down the slope at where a cavalryman was 
sniping from behind a boulder. He was very fond of this boy and he 
was in no mood for slogans. 

“What did you say.?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


309 

One of the men turned from the building that he was doing. This 
man was lying flat on his face, reaching carefully up with his hands 
to put a rock in place while keeping his chin flat against the ground. 

Joaquin repeated the slogan in his dried-up boy’s voice without 
checking his digging for a moment. 

“What was the last word?” the man with his chin on the ground 
asked. 

^ “Veneer” the boy said. “Win.” 

“Mierda,” the man with his chin on the ground said. 

“There is another that applies to here,” Joaquin said, bringing 
them out as though they were talismans, “Pasionaria says it is better 
to die on your feet than to live on your knees.” 

“Mierda again,” the man said and another man said, over his 
shoulder, “We’re on our bellies, not our knees.” 

“Thou. Communist. Do you know your Pasionaria has a son thy 
age in Russia since the start of the movement?” 

“It’s a lie,” Joaquin said. 

“Que va, it’s a lie,” the other said. “The dynamiter with the rare 
name told me. He was of thy party, too. Why should he lie?” 

“It’s a lie,” Joaquin said. “She would not do such a thing as keep 
a son hidden in Russia out of the war.” 

“I wish I were in Russia,” another of Sordo’s men said. “Will not 
thy Pasionaria send me now from here to Russia, Communist?” 

“If thou believest so much in thy Pasionaria, get her to get us off 
this hill,” one of the men who had a bandaged thigh said. 

“The fascists will do that,” the man with his chin in the dirt said. 

“Do not speak thus,” Joaquin said to him. 

“Wipe the pap of your mother’s breasts off thy lips and give me 
a hatful of that dirt,” the man with his chin on the ground said. 
“No one of us will see the sun go down this night.” 

El Sordo was thinking: It is shaped like a chancre. Or the breast 
of a young girl with no nipple. Or the top cone of a volcano. You 
have never seen a volcano, he thought. Nor will you ever see one. 
And this hill is like a chancre. Let the volcanos alone. It’s late now 
for the volcanos. 

He looked very carefully around the withers of the dead horse and 
there was a quick hammering of firing from behind a boulder well 
down the slope and he heard the bullets from the submachine gun 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


310 

thud into the horse. He crawled along behind the horse and looked 
out of the angle between the horse’s hindquarters and the rock. 
There were three bodies on the slope just below him where they 
had fallen when the fascists had rushed the crest under cover of 
the automatic rifle and submachine gunfire and he and the others 
had broken down the attack by throwing and rolling down hand 
grenades. There were other bodies that he could not see on the other 
sides of the hill crest. There was no dead ground by which attackers 
could approach the summit and Sordo knew that as long as his am- 
munition and grenades held out and he had as many as four men 
they could not get him out of there unless they brought up a trench 
mortar. He did not know whether they had sent to La Granja for a 
trench mortar. Perhaps they had not, because surely, soon, the planes 
would come. It had been four hours since the observation plane had 
flown over them. 

This hill is truly like a chancre, Sordo thought, and we are the 
very pus of it. But we killed many when they made that stupidness. 
How could they think that they would take us thus? They have 
such modern armament that they lose all their sense with overcon- 
fidence. He had killed the young officer who had led the assault 
with a grenade that had gone bouncing and rolling down the slope 
as they came up it, running, bent half over. In the yellow flash and 
gray roar of smoke he had seen the officer dive forward to where he 
lay now like a heavy, broken bundle of old clothing marking the 
farthest point that the assault had reached. Sordo looked at this body 
and then, down the hill, at the others. 

They are brave but stupid people, he thought. But they have sense 
enough now not to attack us again until the planes come. Unless, of 
course, they have a mortar coming. It would be easy with a mortar. 
The mortar was the normal thing and he knew that they would die 
as soon as a mortar came up, but when he thought of the planes 
coming up he felt as naked on that hilltop as though all of his 
clothing and even his skin had been removed. There is no nakeder 
thing than I feel, he thought. A flayed rabbit is as well covered as 
a bear in comparison. But why should they bring planes? They 
could get us out of here with a trench mortar easily. They are proud 
of their planes, though, and they will probably bring them. Just as 
they were so proud of their automatic weapons that they made that 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


3II 

stupidness. But undoubtedly they must have sent for a mortar, too. 

One of the men fired. Then jerked the bolt and fired again, 
quickly. 

“Save thy cartridges,” Sordo said. 

“One of the sons of the great whore tried to reach that boulder,” 
the man pointed. 

“Did you hit him.?” Sordo asked, turning his head with difficulty. 

“Nay,” the man said. “The fornicator ducked back.” 

“Who is a whore of whores is Pilar,” the man with his chin in the 
dirt said. “That whore knows we are dying here.” 

“She could do no good,” Sordo said. The man had spoken on the 
side of his good ear and he had heard him without turning his head. 
“What could she do.?” 

“Take these sluts from the rear.” 

“Que va” Sordo said. “They are spread around a hillside. How 
would she come on them.? There are a hundred and fifty of them. 
Maybe more now.” 

“But if we hold out until dark,” Joaquin said. 

“And if Christmas comes on Easter,” the man with his chin on 
the ground said. 

“And if thy aunt had cojones she would be thy uncle,” another 
said to him. “Send for thy Pasionaria. She alone can help us.” 

“I do not believe that about the son,” Joaquin said. “Or if he is 
there he is training to be an aviator or something of that sort.” 

“He is hidden there for safety,” the man told him. 

“He is studying dialectics. Thy Pasionaria has been there. So have 
Lister and Modesto and others. The one with the rare name told me.” 

“That they should go to study and return to aid us,” Joaquin said. 

“That they should aid us now,” another man said. “That all the 
cruts of Russian sucking swindlers should aid us now.” He fired and 
said, “Me cago en tal; I missed him again.” 

“Save thy cartridges and do not talk so much or thou wilt be very 
thirsty,” Sordo said. “There is no water on this hill.” 

“Take this,” the man said and rolling on his side he pulled a wine- 
skin that he wore slung from his shoulder over his head and handed 
it to Sordo. “Wash thy mouth out, old one. Thou must have much 
thirst with thy wounds.” 

“Let all take it,” Sordo said. 


3^2 FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 

“Then I will have some first,” the owner said and squirted a long 
stream into his mouth before he handed the leather bottle around. 

“Sordo, when thinkest thou the planes will come?” the man with 
his chin in the dirt asked. 

“Any time,” said Sordo. “They should have come before.” 

“Do you think these sons of the great whore will attack again?” 

“Only if the planes do not come.” 

He did not think there was any need to speak about the mortar. 
They would know it soon enough when the mortar came. 

“God knows they’ve enough planes with what we saw yesterday.” 

“Too many,” Sordo said. 

His head hurt very much and his arm was stiffening so that the 
pain of moving it was almost unbearable. He looked up at the 
bright, high, blue early summer sky as he raised the leather wine 
bottle with his good arm. He was fifty-two years old and he was 
sure this was the last time he would see that sky. 

He was not at all afraid of dying but he was angry at being 
trapped on this hill which was only utilizable as a place to die. If 
we could have gotten clear, he thought. If we could have made them 
come up the long valley or if we could have broken loose across the 
road it would have been all right. But this chancre of a hill. We 
must use it as well as we can and we have used it very well so far. 

If he had known how many men in history have had to use a 
hill to die on it would not have cheered him any for, in the moment 
he was passing through, men are not impressed by what has hap- 
pened to other men in similar circumstances any more than a widow 
of one day is helped by the knowledge that other loved husbands 
have died. Whether one has fear of it or not, one’s death is difficult 
to accept. Sordo had accepted it but there was no sweetness in its 
acceptance even at fifty-two, with three wounds and him surrounded 
on a hill. 

He joked about it to himself but he looked at the sky and at the 
far mountains and he swallowed the wine and he did not want it. 
If one must die, he thought, and clearly one must, I can die. But I 
hate it. 

Dying was nothing and he had no picture of it nor fear of it 
in his mind. But living was a field of grain blowing in the wind 
on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


313 

earthen jar of water in the dust of the threshing with the grain 
flailed out and the chaff blowing. Living was a horse between your 
legs and a carbine under one leg and a hill and a valley and a stream 
with trees along it and the far side of the valley and the hills beyond. 

Sordo passed the wine bottle back and nodded his head in thanks. 
He leaned forward and patted the dead horse on the shoulder where 
the muzzle of the automatic rifle had burned the hide. He could 
still smell the burnt hair. He thought how he had held the horse 
there, trembling, with the fire around them, whispering and crack- 
ing, over and around them like a curtain, and had carefully shot him 
just at the intersection of the cross-lines between the two eyes and 
the ears. Then as the horse pitched down he had dropped down 
behind his warm, wet back to get the gun to going as they came up 
the hill. 

“Eras mucho caballo,” he said, meaning, “Thou wert plenty of 
horse.” 

El Sordo lay now on his good side and looked up at the sky. He 
was lying on a heap of empty cartridge hulls but his head was pro- 
tected by the rock and his body lay in the lee of the horse. His 
wounds had stiffened badly and he had much pain and he felt too 
tired to move. 

“What passes with thee, old one?” the man next to him asked. 

“Nothing. I am taking a little rest.” 

“Sleep,” the other said. “They will wake us when they come.” 

Just then some one shouted from down the slope. 

“Listen, bandits!” the voice came from behind the rocks where 
the closest automatic rifle was placed. “Surrender now before the 
planes blow you to pieces.” 

“What is it he says?” Sordo asked. 

Joaquin told him. Sordo rolled to one side and pulled himself up 
so that he was crouched behind the gun again. 

“Maybe the planes aren’t coming,” he said. “Don’t answer them 
and do not fire. Maybe we can get them to attack again.” 

“If we should insult them a little?” the man who had’ spoken to 
Joaquin about La Pasionaria’s son in Russia asked. 

“No,” Sordo said. “Give me thy big pistol. Who has a big pistol?” 
“Here.” 

“Give it to me.” Crouched on his knees he took the big 9 mm. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


314 

Star and fired one shot into the ground beside the dead horse, waited, 
then fired again four times at irregular intervals. Then he waited 
while he counted sixty and then fired a final shot direcdy into the 
body of the dead horse. He grinned and handed back the pistol. 

“Reload it,” he whispered, “and that every one should keep his 
mouth shut and no one shoot.” 

“Bandidos!” the voice shouted from behind the rocks. 

No one spoke on the hill. 

'‘Bandidos! Surrender now before we blow thee to litde pieces,” 

“They’re biting,” Sordo whispered happily. 

As he watched, a man showed his head over the top of the rocks. 
There was no shot from the hilltop and the head went down again. 
El Sordo waited, watching, but nothing more happened. He turned 
his head and looked at the others who were all watching down their 
sectors of the slope. As he looked at them the others shook their 
heads. 

“Let no one move,” he whispered. 

“Sons of the great whore,” the voice came now from behind the 
rocks again. 

“Red swine. Mother rapers. Eaters of the milk of thy fathers.” 

Sordo grinned. He could just hear the bellowed insults by turning 
his good ear. This is better than the aspirin, he thought. How many 
will we get? Can they be that foolish? 

The voice had stopped again and for three minutes they heard 
nothing and saw no movement. Then the sniper behind the boulder 
a hundred yards down the slope exposed himself and fired. The 
bullet hit a rock and ricocheted with a sharp whine. Then Sordo 
saw a man, bent double, run from the shelter of the rocks where 
the automatic rifle was across the open ground to the big boulder 
behind which the sniper was hidden. He almost dove behind the 
boulder. 

Sordo looked around. They signalled to him that there was no 
movement on the other slopes. El Sordo grinned happily and shook 
his head. This is ten times better than the aspirin, he thought, and 
he waited, as happy as only a hunter can be happy. 

Below on the slope the man who had run from the pile of stones 
to the shelter of the boulder was speaking to the sniper. 

“Do you believe it?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


315 


“I don’t know,” the sniper said. 

“It would be logical,” the man, who was the officer in command, 
said. “They are surrounded. They have nothing to expect but to die.” 

The sniper said nothing. 

“What do you think?” the officer asked. 

“Nothing,” the sniper said. 

“Have you seen any movement since the shots?” 

“None at all.” 

The officer looked at his wrist watch. It was ten minutes to three 
o’clock. 

“The planes should have come an hour ago,” he said. Just then 
another officer flopped in behind the boulder. The sniper moved 
over to make room for him. 

“Thou, Paco,” the first officer said. “How does it seem to thee?” 

The second officer was breathing heavily from his sprint up and 
across the hillside from the automatic rifle position. 

“For me it is a trick,” he said. 

“But if it is not? What a ridicule we make waiting here and laying 
siege to dead men.” 

“We have done something worse than ridiculous already,” the 
second officer said. “Look at that slope.” 

He looked up the slope to where the dead were scattered close to 
the top. From where he looked the line of the hilltop showed the 
scattered rocks, the belly, projecting legs, shod hooves jutting out, of 
Sordo’s horse, and the fresh dirt thrown up by the digging. 

“What about the mortars?” asked the second officer. 

“They should be here in an hour. If not before.” 

“Then wait for them. There has been enough stupidity already.” 

“Bandidosl” the first officer shouted suddenly, getting to his feet 
and putting his head well up above the boulder so that the crest of 
the hill looked much closer as he stood upright. “Red swine! Cow- 
ards!” 

The second officer looked at the sniper and shook his head. The 
sniper looked away but his lips tightened. 

The first officer stood there, his head all clear of the rock and with 
his hand on his pistol butt. He cursed and vilified the hilltop. Noth- 
ing happened. Then he stepped clear of the boulder and stood there 
looking up the hill. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


316 

“Fire, cowards, if you are alive,” he shouted. “Fire on one who 
has no fear of any Red that ever came out of the belly of the great 
whore.” 

This last was quite a long sentence to shout and the officer’s face 
was red and congested as he finished. 

The second officer, who was a thin sunburned man with quiet 
eyes, a thin, long-lipped mouth and a stubble of beard over his hol- 
low cheeks, shook his head again. It was this officer who was shout- 
ing who had ordered the first assault. The young heutenant who 
was dead up the slope had been the best friend of this other heu- 
tenant who was named Paco Berrendo and who was listening to 
the shouting of the captain, who was obviously in a state of ex- 
altation. 

“Those are the swine who shot my sister and my mother,” the 
captain said. He had a red face and a blond, British-looking mous- 
tache and there was something wrong about his eyes. They were a 
light blue and the lashes were light, too. As you looked at them 
they seemed to focus slowly. Then “Reds,” he shouted. “CowardsI” 
and commenced cursing again. 

He stood absolutely clear now and, sighting carefully, fired his 
pistol at the only target that the hilltop presented: the dead horse 
that had belonged to Sordo. The bullet threw up a puff of dirt fif- 
teen yards below the horse. The captain fired again. The bullet hit 
a rock and sung off. 

The captain stood there looking at the hilltop. The Lieutenant 
Berrendo was looking at the body of the other lieutenant just below 
the summit. The sniper was looking -at the ground under his eyes. 
Then he looked up at the captain. 

“There is no one afive up there,” the captain said. “Thou,” he 
said to the sniper, “go up there and see.” 

The sniper looked down. He said nothing. 

“Don’t you hear me.?” the captain shouted at him. 

“Yes, my captain,” the sniper said, not looking at him. 

“Then get up and go.” The captain still had his pistol out. “Do 
you hear me.?” 

“Yes, my captain.” 

“Why don’t you go, then.?” 

“I don’t want to, my captain.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


317 

“You don’t want to?” The captain pushed the pistol against the 
small of the man’s back. “You don’t want to?” 

“I am afraid, my captain,” the soldier said with dignity. 

Lieutenant Berrendo, watching the captain’s face and his odd eyes, 
thought he was going to shoot the man then. 

“Captain Mora,” he said. 

“Lieutenant Berrendo?” 

“It is possible the soldier is right.” 

“That he is right to say he is afraid? That he is right to say he 
does not want to obey an order?” 

“No. That he is right that it is a trick.” 

“They are all dead,” the captain said. “Don’t you hear me say they 
are all dead?” 

“You mean our comrades on the slope?” Berrendo asked him. “I 
agree with you.” 

“Paco,” the captain said, “don’t be a fool. Do you think you are the 
only one who cared for Julian? I tell you the Reds are dead. Look!” 

He stood up, then put both hands on top of the boulder and pulled 
himself up, kneeing-up awkwardly, then getting on his feet. 

“Shoot,” he shouted, standing on the gray granite boulder and 
waved both his arms. “Shoot me! Kill me!” 

On the hilltop El Sordo lay behind the dead horse and grinned. 

What a people, he thought. He laughed, trying to hold it in because 
the shaking hurt his arm. 

“Reds,” came the shout from below. “Red canaille. Shoot me! 
Kill me!” 

Sordo, his chest shaking, barely peeped past the horse’s crupper 
and saw the captain on top of the boulder waving his arms. An- 
other officer stood by the boulder. The sniper was standing at the 
other side. Sordo kept his eye where it was and shook his head 
happily. 

“Shoot me,” he said softly to himself. “Kill me!” Then his shoul- 
ders shook again. The laughing hurt his arm and each time he 
laughed his head felt as though it would burst. But the laughter 
shook him again like a spasm. 

Captain Mora got down from the boulder. 

“Now do you believe me, Paco?” he questioned Lieutenant 
Berrendo. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


318 

“No,” said Lieutenant Berrendo. 

“Cojones!” the captain said. “Here there is nothing but idiots 
and cowards.” 

The sniper had gotten carefully behind the boulder again and 
Lieutenant Berrendo was squatting beside him. 

The captain, standing in the open beside the boulder, commenced 
to shout filth at the hilltop. There is no language so filthy as Spanish. 
There are words for all the vile words in English and there are 
other words and expressions that are used only in countries where 
blasphemy keeps pace with the austerity of refigion. Lieutenant 
Berrendo was a very devout Catholic. So was the sniper. They were 
Carlists from Navarra and while both of them cursed and blas- 
phemed when they were angry they regarded it as a sin which they 
regularly confessed. 

As they crouched now behind the boulder watching the captain 
and listening to what he was shouting, they both disassociated them- 
selves from him and what he was saying. They did not want to 
have that sort of talk on their consciences on a day in which they 
might die. Talking thus will not bring luck, the sniper thought. 
Speaking thus of the Virgen is bad luck. This one speaks worse than 
the Reds. 

Julian is dead. Lieutenant Berrendo was thinking. Dead there on 
the slope on such a day as this is. And this foul mouth stands there 
bringing more ill fortune with his blasphemies. 

Now the captain stopped shouting and turned to Lieutenant 
Berrendo. His eyes looked stranger than ever. 

“Paco,” he said, happily, “you and I will go up there.” 

“Not me.” 

“What?” The captain had his pistol out again. 

I hate these pistol brandishers, Berrendo was thinking. They can- 
not give an order without Jerking a gun out. They probably pull out 
their pistols when they go to the toilet and order the move they 
will make. 

“I will go if you order me to. But under protest,” Lieutenant 
Berrendo told the captain. 

“Then I will go alone,” the captain said. “The smell of cowardice 
is too strong here.” 

Holding his pistol in his right hand, he strode steadily up the 
slope. Berrendo and the sniper watched him. He w'as making no 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


319 

attempt to take any cover and he was looking straight ahead of him 
at the rocks, the dead horse, and the fresh-dug dirt of the hilltop. 

El Sordo lay behind the horse at the corner of the rock, watching 
the captain come striding up the hill. 

Only one, he thought. We get only one. But from his manner of 
speaking he is caza mayor. Look at him walking. Look what an 
animal. Look at him stride forward. This one is for me. This one 
I take with me on the trip. This one coming now makes the same 
voyage I do. Come on. Comrade Voyager. Come striding. Come 
right along. Come along to meet it. Come on. Keep on walking. 
Don’t slow up. Come right along. Come as thou art coming. Don’t 
stop and look at those. That’s right. Don’t even look down. Keep 
on coming with your eyes forward. Look, he has a moustache. What 
do you think of that? He runs to a moustache, the Comrade Voy- 
ager. He is a captain. Look at his sleeves. I said he was caza mayor. 
He has the face of an Ingles. Look. With a red face and blond hair 
and blue eyes. With no cap on and his moustache is yellow. With 
blue eyes. With pale blue eyes. With pale blue eyes with something 
wrong with them. With pale blue eyes that don’t focus. Close enough. 
Too close. Yes, Comrade Voyager. Take it. Comrade Voyager. 

He squeezed the trigger of the automatic rifle gently and it 
pounded back three times against his shoulder with the slippery jolt 
the recoil of a tripoded automatic weapon gives. 

The captain lay on his face on the hillside. His left arm was under 
him. His right arm that had held the pistol was stretched forward 
of his head. From all down the slope they were firing on the hill 
crest again. 

Crouched behind the boulder, thinking that now he would have 
to sprint across that open space under fire, Lieutenant Berrendo 
heard the deep hoarse voice of Sordo from the hilltop. 

“Bandidos!” the voice came. “Bandidos! Shoot me! Kill me!” 

On the top of the hill El Sordo lay behind the automatic rifle 
laughing so that his chest ached, so that he thought the top of his 
head would burst. 

“Bandidos,” he shouted again happily. “Kill me, bandidosl” Then 
he shook his head happily. We have lots of company for the Voyage, 
he thought. 

He was going to try for the other officer with the automatic rifle 
when he would leave the shelter of the boulder. Sooner or later he 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


320 

would have to leave it. Sordo knew that he could never command 
from there and he thought he had a very good chance to get him. 

Just then the others on the hill heard the first sound of the coming 
of the planes. 

El Sordo did not hear them. He was covering the down-slope edge 
of the boulder with his automatic rifle and he was thinking: when 
I see him he will be running already and I will miss him if I am 
not careful. I could shoot behind him all across that stretch. I should 
swing the gun with him and ahead of him. Or let him start and 
then get on him and ahead of him. I will try to pick him up there 
at the edge of the rock and swing just ahead of him. Then he felt 
a touch on his shoulder and he turned and saw the gray, fear-drained 
face of Joaquin and he looked where the boy was pointing and saw 
the three planes coming. 

At this moment Lieutenant Berrendo broke from behind the boul- 
der and, with his head bent and his legs plunging, ran down and 
across the slope to the shelter of the rocks where the automatic rifle 
was placed. 

Watching the planes, Sordo never saw him go. 

“Help me to pull this out,” he said to Joaquin and the boy dragged 
the automatic rifle clear from between the horse and the rock. 

The planes were coming on steadily. They were in echelon and 
each second they grew larger and their noise was greater. 

“Lie on your backs to fire at them,” Sordo said. “Fire ahead of 
them as they come.” 

He was watching them all the time. "Cabronesl Hijos de puta!” 
he said rapidly. 

“Ignacio!” he said. “Put the gun on the shoulder of the boy. 
Thou!” to Joaquin, “Sit there and do not move. Crouch over. More. 
No. More.” 

He lay back and sighted with the automatic rifle as the planes 
came on steadily. 

“Thou, Ignacio, hold me the three legs of that tripod.” They were 
dangling down the boy’s back and the muzzle of the gun was shak- 
ing from the jerking of his body that Joaquin could not control as 
he crouched with bent head hearing the droning roar of their 
coming. 

Lying flat on his belly and looking up into the sky watching them 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 32I 

come, Ignacio gathered the legs of the tripod into his two hands and 
steadied the gun. 

“Keep thy head down,” he said to Joaquin. “Keep thy head for- 
ward.” 

“Pasionaria says ‘Better to die on thy—’ ” Joaquin was saying to 
himself as the drone came nearer them. Then he shifted suddenly 
into ^‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; Blessed art 
thou among women and Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. 
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the 
hour of our death. Amen. Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he started, 
then he remembered quickly as the roar came now unbearably and 
started an act of contrition racing in it, “Oh my God, I am heartily 
sorry for having offended thee who art worthy of all my love ” 

Then there were the hammering explosions past his ears and the 
gun barrel hot against his shoulder. It was hammering now again 
and his ears were deafened by the muzzle blast. Ignacio was pull- 
ing down hard on the tripod and the barrel was burning his back. 
It was hammering now in the roar and he could not remember the 
act of contrition. 

All he could remember was at the hour of our death. Amen. At 
the hour of our death. Amen. At the hour. At the hour. Amen. The 
others all were firing. Now and at the hour of our death. Amen. 

Then, through the hammering of the gun, there was the whistle 
of the air splitting apart and then in the red black roar the earth 
rolled under his knees and then waved up to hit him in the face and 
then dirt and bits of rock were falling all over and Ignacio was lying 
on him and the gun was lying on him. But he was not dead because 
the whistle came again and the earth rolled under him with the 
roar. Then it came again and the earth lurched under his belly and 
one side of the hilltop rose into the air and then fell slowly over 
them where they lay. 

The planes came back three times and bombed the hilltop but no 
one on the hilltop knew it. Then the planes machine-gunned the 
hilltop and went away. As they dove on the hill for the last time 
with their machine guns hammering, the first plane pulled up and 
winged over and then each plane did the same and they moved from 
echelon to V-formation and went away into the sky in the direction 
of Segovia. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


322 

Keeping a heavy fire on the hilltop, Lieutenant Berrendo pushed 
a patrol up to one of the bomb craters from where they could throw 
grenades onto the crest. He was taking no chances of any one being 
alive and waiting for them in the mess that was up there and he 
threw four grenades into the confusion of dead horses, broken and 
split rocks, and torn yellow-stained explosive-stinking earth before 
he climbed out of the bomb crater and walked over to have a look. 

No one was alive on the hilltop except the boy Joaquin, who was 
unconscious under the dead body of Ignacio. Joaquin was bleeding 
from the nose and from the ears. He had known nothing and had 
no feeling since he had suddenly been in the very heart of the thun- 
der and the breath had been wrenched from his body when the one 
bomb struck so close and Lieutenant Berrendo made the sign of the 
cross and then shot him in the back of the head, as quickly and as 
gently, if such an abrupt movement can be gende, as Sordo had shot 
the wounded horse. 

Lieutenant Berrendo stood on the hilltop and looked down the 
slope at his own dead and then across the country seeing where they 
had galloped before Sordo had turned at bay here. He noticed all 
the dispositions that had been made of the troops and then he 
ordered the dead men’s horses to be brought up and the bodies tied 
across the saddles so that they might be packed in to La Granja. 

“Take that one, too,” he said. “The one with his hands on the 
automatic rifle. That should be Sordo. He is the oldest and it was 
he with the gun. No. Cut the head off and wrap it in a poncho.” He 
considered a minute. “You might as well take all the heads. And of 
the others below on the slope and where we first found them. Col- 
lect the rifles and pistols and pack that gun on a horse.” 

Then he walked down to where the heutenant lay who had been 
killed in the first assault. He looked down at him but did not touch 
him. 

“Que cosa mas mala es la guerra,” he said to himself, which meant, 
“What a bad thing war is.” 

Then he made the sign of the cross again and as he walked down 
the hill he said five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys for the repose 
of the soul of his dead comrade. He did not wish to stay to see his 
orders being carried out. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 


After the planes went away Robert Jordan and Primitivo heard 
the firing start and his heart seemed to start again with it. A cloud 
of smoke drifted over the last ridge that he could see in the high 
country and the planes were three steadily receding specks in the 
sky. 

“They’ve probably bombed hell out of their own cavalry and never 
touched Sordo and Company,” Robert Jordan said to himself. “The 
damned planes scare you to death but they don’t kill you.” 

“The combat goes on,” Primitivo said, listening to the heavy firing. 
He had winced at each bomb thud and now he licked his dry lips. 

“Why not.?” Robert Jordan said. “Those things never kill any- 
body.” 

Then the firing stopped absolutely and he did not hear another 
shot. Lieutenant Berrendo’s pistol shot did not carry that far. 

When the firing first stopped it did not affect him. Then as the 
quiet kept on a hollow feeling came in his chest. Then he heard the 
grenades burst and for a moment his heart rose. Then everything 
was quiet again and the quiet kept on and he knew that it was 
over. 

Maria came up from the camp with a tin bucket of stewed hare 
with mushrooms sunken in the rich gravy and a sack with bread, 
a leather wine bottle, four tin plates, two cups and four spoons. She 
stopped at the gun and ladled out two plates for Agustin and 
Eladio, who had replaced Anselmo at the gun, and gave them bread 
and unscrewed the horn tip of the wine bottle and poured two cups 
of wine. 

Robert Jordan watched her climbing lithely up to his lookout 
post, the sack over her shoulder, the bucket in one hand, her cropped 
head bright in the sun. He climbed down and took the bucket and 
helped her up the last boulder. 

“What did the aviation do.?” she asked, her eyes frightened. 

323 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


324 

“Bombed Sordo.” 

He had the bucket open and was ladling out stew onto a plate. 

“Are they still fighting.?” 

“No. It is over.” 

“Oh,” she said and bit her lip and looked out across the country. 

“I have no appetite,” Primitive said. 

“Eat anyway,” Robert Jordan told him. 

“I could not swallow food.” 

“Take a drink of this, man,” Robert Jordan said and handed him 
the wine bottle. “Then eat.” 

“This of Sordo has taken away desire,” Primitivo said “Eat, thou. 
I have no desire.” 

Maria went over to him and put her arms around his neck and 
kissed him. 

“Eat, old one,” she said. “Each one should take care of his 
strength.” 

Primitivo turned away from her. He took the wine bottle and 
tipping his head back swallowed steadily while he squirted a jet of 
wine into the back of his mouth. Then he filled his plate from 
the bucket and commenced to eat. 

Robert Jordan looked at Maria and shook his head. She sat down 
by bim and put her arm around his shoulder. Each knew how the 
other felt and they sat there and Robert Jordan ate the stew, taking 
time to appreciate the mushrooms completely, and he drank the 
wine and they said nothing. 

“You may stay here, giiapa, if you want,” he said after a while 
when the food was all eaten. 

“Nay,” she said. “I must go to Pilar.” 

“It is all right to stay here. I do not think that anything will hap- 
pen now.” 

“Nay. I must go to Pilar. She is giving me instruction.” 

“What does she give thee.?” 

“Instruction.” She smiled at h’m and then kissed h’m. “Did 
you never hear of religious instruction.?” She blushed. “It is some- 
thing like that.” She blushed again. “But different.” 

“Go to thy instruction,” he said and patted her on the head. She 
smiled at him again, then said to Primitivo, “Do you want any- 
thing from below.?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 325 

“No, daughter,” he said. They both saw that he was still not yet 
recovered. 

“Salud, old one,” she said to him. 

“Listen,” Primitivo said. “I have no fear to die but to leave them 
alone thus—” his voice broke. 

“There was no choice,” Robert Jordan told him. 

“I know. But all the same.” 

“There was no choice,” Robert Jordan repeated. “And now it is 
better not to speak of it.” 

“Yes. But there alone with no aid from us ” 

“Much better not to speak of it,” Robert Jordan said. “And thou, 
guapa, get thee to thy instruction.” 

He watched her climb down through the rocks. Then he sat 
there for a long time thinking and watching the high country. 

Primitivo spoke to him but he did not answer. It was hot in the 
sun but he did not notice the heat while he sat watching the hill 
slopes and the long patches of pine trees that stretched up the high- 
est slope. An hour passed and the sun was far to his left now when 
he saw them coming over the crest of the slope and he picked up his 
glasses. 

The horses showed small and minute as the first two riders came 
into sight on the long green slope of the high hill. Then there were 
four more horsemen coming down, spread out across the wide hill 
and then through his glasses he saw the double column of men and 
horses ride into the sharp clarity of his vision. As he watched them 
he felt sweat come from his armpits and run down his flanks. 
One man rode at the head of the column. Then came more horse- 
men. Then came the riderless horses with their burdens tied across 
the saddles. Then there were two riders. Then came the wounded 
with men walking by them as they rode. Then came more cavalry 
to close the column. 

Robert Jordan watched them ride down the slope and out of sight 
into the timber. He could not see at that distance the load one saddle 
bore of a long rolled poncho tied at each end and at intervals so that 
it bulged between each lashing as a pod bulges with peas. This was 
tied across the saddle and at each end it was lashed to the stirrup 
leathers. Alongside this on the top of the saddle the automatic rifle 
Sordo had served was lashed arrogantly. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


326 

Lieutenant Berrendo, who was riding at the head of the column, 
his flankers out, his point pushed well forward, felt no arrogance. 
He felt only the hollowness that comes after action. He was think- 
ing: taking the heads is barbarous. But proof and identification is 
necessary. I will have trouble enough about this as it is and who 
knows? This of the heads may appeal to them. There are those 
of them who like such things. It is possible they will send them all 
to Burgos. It is a barbarous business. The planes were muchos. 
Much. Much. But we could have done it all, and almost without 
losses, with a Stokes mortar. Two mules to carry the shells and a 
mule with a mortar on each side of the pack saddle. What an army 
we would be then! With the fire power of all these automatic 
weapons. And another mule. No, two mules to carry ammunition. 
Leave it alone, he told himself. It is no longer cavalry. Leave it alone. 
You’re building yourself an army. Next you will want a mountain 
gun. 

Then he thought of Julian, dead on the hill, dead now, tied 
across a horse there in the first troop, and as he rode down into the 
dark pine forest, leaving the sunlight behind him on the hill, riding 
now in the quiet dark of the forest, he started to say a prayer for him 
again. 

“Hail, holy queen mother of mercy,” he started. “Our life, our 
sweetness and our hope. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourn- 
ings and weepings in this valley of tears ” 

He went on with the prayer, the horses’ hooves soft on the fallen 
pine needles, the light coming through the tree trunks in patches as 
it comes through the columns of a cathedral, and as he prayed he 
looked ahead to see his flankers riding through the trees. 

He rode out of the forest onto the yellow road that led into La 
Granja and the horses’ hooves raised a dust that hung over them as 
they rode. It powdered the dead who were tied face down across the 
saddles and the wounded, and those who walked beside them, were 
in thick dust. 

It was here that Anselmo saw them ride past in their dust. 

He counted the dead and the wounded and he recognized Sordo’s 
automatic rifle. He did not know what the poncho-wrapped bundle 
was which flapped against the led horse’s flanks as the stirrup leath- 
ers swung but when, on his way home, he came in the dark onto 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


327 

the hill where Sordo had fought, he knew at once what the long 
poncho roll contained. In the dark he could not tell who had been 
up on the hill. But he counted those that lay there and then made 
off across the hills for Pablo’s camp. 

Walking alone in the dark, with a fear like a freezing of his 
heart from the feeling the holes of the bomb craters had given him, 
from them and from what he had found on the hill, he put all 
thought of the next day out of his mind. He simply walked as fast 
as he could to bring the news. And as he walked he prayed for the 
souls of Sordo and of all his band. It was the first time he had 
prayed since the start of the movement. 

“Most kind, most sweet, most clement Virgin,” he prayed. 

But he could not keep from thinking of the next day finally. So 
he thought: I will do exactly as the Ingles says and as he says to do 
it. But let me be close to him, O Lord, and may his instructions be 
exact for I do not think that I could control myself under the 
bombardment of the planes. Help me, O Lord, tomorrow to comport 
myself as a man should in his last hours. Help me, O Lord, to under- 
stand clearly the needs of the day. Help me, O Lord, to dominate the 
movement of my legs that I should not run when the bad moment 
comes. Help me, O Lord, to comport myself as a man tomorrow in 
the day of battle. Since I have asked this aid of thee, please grant 
it, knowing I would not ask it if it were not serious, and I will ask 
nothing more of thee again. 

Walking in the dark alone he felt much better from having 
prayed and he was sure, now, that he would comport himself well. 
Walking now down from the high country, he went back to praying 
for the people of Sordo and in a short time he had reached the upper 
post where Fernando challenged him. 

“It is I,” he answered, “Anselmo.” 

“Good,” Fernando said. 

“You know of this of Sordo, old one?” Anselmo asked Fernando, 
the two of them standing at the entrance of the big rocks in the 
dark. 

“Why not?” Fernando said. “Pablo has told us.” 

“He was up there?” 

“Why not?” Fernando said stolidly. “He visited the hill as soon 
as the cavalry left.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


328 

“He told you- 

“He told us all,” Fernando said. “What barbarians these fascists 
are! We must do away with all such barbarians in Spain.” He stop- 
ped, then said bitterly, “In them is lacking all conception of dig- 
nity.” 

Anselmo grinned in the dark. An hour ago he could not have 
imagined that he would ever smile again. What a marvel, that Fer- 
nando, he thought. 

“Yes,” he said to Fernando. “We must teach them. We must take 
away their planes, their automatic weapons, their tanks, their artil- 
lery and teach them dignity.” 

“Exactly,” Fernando said. “I am glad that you agree.” 

Anselmo left him standing there alone with his dignity and went 
on down to the cave. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 


Anselmo found Robert Jordan sitting at the plank table inside the 
cave with Pablo opposite him. They had a bowl poured full of wine 
between them and each had a cup of wine on the table. Robert 
Jordan had his notebook out and he was holding a pencil. Pilar and 
Maria were in the back of the cave out of sight. There was no way 
for Anselmo to know that the woman was keeping the girl back 
there to keep her from hearing the conversation and he thought that 
it was odd that Pilar was not at the table. 

Robert Jordan looked up as Anselmo came in under the blanket 
that hung over the opening. Pablo stared straight at the table. His 
eyes were focused on the wine bowl but he was not seeing it. 

“I come from above,” Anselmo said to Robert Jordan. 

“Pablo has told us,” Robert Jordan said. 

“There were six dead on the hill and they had taken the heads,” 
Anselmo said. “I was there in the dark.” 

Robert Jordan nodded. Pablo sat there looking at the wine bowl 
and saying nothing. There was no expression on his face and his 
small pig-eyes were looking at the wine bowl as though he had never 
seen one before. 

“Sit down,” Robert Jordan said to Anselmo. 

The old man sat down at the table on one of the hide-covered 
stools and Robert Jordan reached under the table and brought up 
the pinch-bottle of whiskey that had been the gift of Sordo. It was 
about half-full. Robert Jordan reached down the table for a cup and 
poured a drink of whiskey into it and shoved it along the table to 
Anselmo. 

“Drink that, old one,” he said. 

Pablo looked from the wine bowl to Anselmo’s face as he drank 
and then he looked back at the wine bowl. 

As Anselmo swallowed the whiskey he felt a burning in his nose, 
his eyes and his mouth, and then a happy, comforting warmth in his 
stomach. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Then he looked at Robert Jordan and said, “Can I have another?” 

329 


33^ ' WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 

“Why not?” Robert Jordan said and poured another drink from 
the bottle and handed it this time instead of pus hin g it. 

This time there was not the burning when he swallowed but the 
warm comfort doubled. It was as good a thing for his spirit as a 
saline injection is for a man who has suffered a great hemorrhage. 

The old man looked toward the bottle again. 

“The rest is for tomorrow,” Robert Jordan said. “What passed on 
the road, old one?” 

“There was much movement,” Anselmo said. “I have it all noted 
down as you showed me. I have one watching for me and noting 
now. Later I will go for her report.” 

“Did you see anti-tank guns? Those on rubber tires with the 
long barrels?” 

“Yes,” Anselmo said. “There were four camions which passed 
on the road. In each of them there was such a gun with pine 
branches spread across the barrels. In the trucks rode six men with 
each gun.” 

“Four guns, you say?” Robert Jordan asked him. 

“Four,” Anselmo said. He did not look at his papers. 

“Tell me what else went up the road.” 

While Robert Jordan noted Anselmo told him everything he had 
seen move past him on the road. He told it from the beginning and 
in order with the wonderful memory of those who cannot read or 
write, and twice, while he was talking, Pablo reached out for more 
wine from the bowl. 

“There was also the cavalry which entered La Granja from the 
high country where El Sordo fought,” Anselmo went on. 

Then he told the number of the wounded he had seen and the 
number of the dead across the saddles. 

“There was a bundle packed across one saddle that I did not 
understand,” he said. “But now I know it was the heads.” He 
went on without pausing. “It was a squadron of cavalry. They had 
only one officer left. He was not the one who was here in the early 
morning when vou were by the gun. He must have been one of the 
dead. Two of the dead were officers by their sleeves. They were 
lashed face down over the saddles, their arms hanging. Also they 
hnd the maqirna of El Sordo tied to the saddle that bore the heads. 
The barrel was bent. That is all,” he finished. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


331 

“It is enough,” Robert Jordan said and dipped his cup into the 
w^e bowl. “Who beside you has been through the Hnes to the 
side of the Republic.?” 

“Andres and Eladio.” 

“Which is the better of those two.?” 

“Andres.” 

“How long would it take him to get to Navacerrada from here.?” 

“Carrying no pack and taking his precautions, in three hours with 
luck. We came by a longer, safer route because of the material.” 

“He can surely make it.?” 

'“No se, there is no such thing as surely.” 

“Not for thee either.?” 

“Nay.” 

That decides that, Robert Jordan thought to himself. If he had 
said that he could make it surely, surely I would have sent him. 

“Andres can get there as well as thee.?” 

“As well or better. He is younger.” 

“But this must absolutely get there.” 

“If nothing happens he will get there. If anything happens it 
could happen to any one.” 

“I will write a dispatch and send it by him,” Robert Jordan said. 
“I will explain to him where he can find the General. He will be 
at the Estado Mayor of the Division.” 

“He will not understand all this of divisions and all,” Anselmo 
said. “Always has it confused me. He should have the name of the 
General and where he can be found.” 

“But it is at the Estado Mayor of the Division that he will be 
found.” 

“But is that not a place.?” 

“Certainly it is a place, old one,” Robert Jordan explained pa- 
tiently. “But it is a place the General will have selected. It is where 
he will make his headquarters for the battle.” 

“Where is it then.?” Anselmo was tired and the tiredness was 
making him stupid. Also words like Brigades, Divisions, Army 
Corps confused him. First there had been columns, then there were 
regiments, then there were brigades. Now there were brigades and 
divisions, both. He did not understand. A place was a place. 

“Take it slowly, old one,” Robert Jordan said. He knew that if he 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


332 

could not make Anselmo understand he could never explain it 
clearly to Andres either. “The Estado Mayor of the Division is a 
place the General will have picked to set up his organization to 
command. He commands a division, which is two brigades. I do not 
know where it is because I was not there when it was picked. It will 
probably be a cave or dugout, a refuge, and wires will run to it. 
Andres must ask for the General and for the Estado Mayor of the 
Division. He must give this to the General or to the Chief of his 
Estado Mayor or to another whose name I will write. One of them 
will surely be there even if the others are out inspecting the prepa- 
rations for the attack. Do you understand now.?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then get Andres and I will write it now and seal it with this 
seal.” He showed him the small, round, wooden-backed rubber stamp 
with the seal of the S. I. M. and the round, tin-covered inking pad no 
bigger than a fifty-cent piece he carried in his pocket. “That seal 
they will honor. Get Andres now and I will explain to him. He must 
go quickly but first he must understand.” 

“He will understand if I do. But you must make it very clear. 
This of staffs and divisions is . a mystery to me. Always have I 
gone to such things as definite places such as a house. In Navacerrada 
it is in the old hotel where the place of command is. In Guadar- 
rama it is in a house with a garden.” 

“With this General,” Robert Jordan said, “it will be some place 
very close to the lines. It will be underground to protect from the 
planes. Andres will find it easily by asking, if he knows what to 
ask for. He will only need to show what I have written. But fetch 
him now for this should get there quickly.” 

Anselmo went out, ducking under the hanging blanket. Robert 
Jordan commenced writing in his notebook. 

“Listen, Ingles,” Pablo said, still looking at the wine bowl. 

“I am writing,” Robert Jordan said without looking up. 

“Listen, Ingles,” Pablo spoke directly to the wine bowl. “There 
is no need to be disheartened in this. Without Sordo we have plenty 
of people to take the posts and blow thy bridge.” 

“Good,” Robert Jordan said without stopping writing. 

“Plenty,” Pablo said. “I have admired thy judgment much today, 
Ingles,” Pablo told the wine bowl. “I think thou hast much picctrdia. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 333 

That thou art smarter than I am. I have confidence in thee.” 

Concentrating on his report to Golz, trying to put it in the few- 
est words and still make it absolutely convincing, trying to put it 
so the attack would be cancelled, absolutely, yet convince them he 
wasn’t trying to have it called off because of any fears he might 
have about the danger of his own mission, but wished only to put 
them in possession of all the facts, Robert Jordan was hardly half 
listening. 

“Ingles," Pablo said. 

“I am writing,” Robert Jordan told him without looking up. 

I probably should send two copies, he thought. But if I do we will 
not have enough people to blow it if I have to blow it. What do I 
know about why this attack is made.? Maybe it is only a holding 
attack. Maybe they want to draw those troops from somewhere else. 
Perhaps they make it to draw those planes from the North. Maybe 
that is what it is about. Perhaps it is not expected to succeed. What 
do I know about it.? This is my report to Golz. I do not blow the 
bridge until the attack starts. My orders are clear and if the attack 
is called off I blow nothing. But I’ve got to keep enough people here 
for the bare minimum necessary to carry the orders out. 

“What did you say.?” he asked Pablo. 

“That I have confidence, Ingles.” Pablo was still addressing the 
wine bowl. 

Man, I wish I had, Robert Jordan thought. He went on writing. 


CHAPTER THIRTY 


So NOW everything had been done that there was to do that night. 
All orders had been given. Every one knew exactly what he was 
to do in the morning. Andres had been gone three hours. Either it 
would come now with the coming of the daylight or it would not 
come. 1 believe that it will come, Robert Jordan told himself, walking 
back down from the upper post where he had gone to speak to Pri- 
mitivo. 

Golz makes the attack but he has not the power to cancel it. Per- 
mission to cancel it will have to come from Madrid. The chances 
are they won’t be able to wake anybody up there and if they do wake 
up they will be too sleepy to think. I should have gotten word to 
Golz sooner of the preparations they have made to meet the attack, 
but how could I send word about something until it happened? They 
did not move up that stuff until just at dark. They did not want to 
have any movement on the road spotted by planes. But what about 
all their planes? What about those fascist planes? 

Surely our people must have been warned by them. But perhaps 
the fascists were faking for another offensive down through Guada- 
lajara with them. There were supposed to be Italian troops concen- 
trated in Soria, and at Siguenza again besides those operating in the 
North. They haven’t enough troops or material to run two major 
offensives at the same time though. That is impossible; so it must be 
just a bluff. 

But we know how many troops the Italians have landed all last 
month and the month before at Cadiz. It is always possible they will 
try again at Guadalajara, not stupidly as before, but with three main 
fingers coming down to broaden it out and carry it along the railway 
to the west of the plateau. There was a way that they could do it 
all right. Hans had shown him. They made many mistakes the first 
time. The whole conception was unsound. They had not used any of 
the same troops in the Arganda offensive against the Madrid-Valen- 
cia road that they used at Guadalajara. Why had they not made 
those same drives simultaneously? Why? Why? When would we 
know why? 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


335 

Yet we had stopped them both times with the very same troops. 
We never could have stopped them if they had pulled both drives 
at once. Don’t worry, he told himself. Look at the miracles that have 
happened before this. Either you will have to blow that bridge in the 
morning or you will not have to. But do not start deceiving yourself 
into thinking you won’t have to blow it. You will blow it one day or 
you will blow it another. Or if it is not this bridge it will be 
some other bridge. It is not you who decides what shall be done. 
You follow orders. Follow them and do not try to think beyond 
them. 

The orders on this are very clear. Too very clear. But you must 
not worry nor must you be frightened. For if you allow yourself 
the luxury of normal fear that fear will infect those who must work 
with you. 

But that heads business was quite a thing all the same, he told 
himself. And the old man running onto them on the hilltop alone. 
How would you have liked to run onto them like that.? That im- 
pressed you, didn’t it.? Yes, that impressed you, Jordan. You have 
been quite impressed more than once today. But you have behaved 
O.K. So far you have behaved all right. 

You do verv well for an instructor in Spanish at the University of 
Montana, he joked at himself. You do all right for that. But do not 
start to thinking that you are anything very special. You haven’t got- 
ten very far in this business. Just remember Duran, who never had 
any military training and who was a composer and lad about town 
before the movement and is now a damned good general com- 
manding a brigade. It was all as simple and easy to learn and under- 
stand to Duran as chess to a child chess prodigy. You had read on 
and studied thp art of war ever since you were a boy and your grand- 
father had started you on the American Civil War. Except that 
Grandfather always called it the War of the Rebellion. But compared 
with Duran you were like a good sound chess player against a boy 
prodigy. Old Duran. It would be good to see Duran again. He would 
see him at Gaylord’s after this was over. Yes. After this was over. 
See how well he was behaving.? 

I’ll see him at Gaylord’s, he said to himself again, after this is over. 
Don’t kid yourself, he said. You do it all perfectly O.K. Cold. With- 
out kidding yourself. You aren’t going to see Duran any more and 


33^ FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 

ir is of no importance. Don’t be that way either, he told himself. 
Don’t go in for any of those luxuries. 

Nor for heroic resignation either. We do not want any citizens 
full of heroic resignation in these hills. Your grandfather fought 
four years in our Civil War and you are just finishing your first year 
in this war. You have a long time to go yet and you are very well 
fitted for the work. And now you have Maria, too. Why, you’ve 
got everything. You shouldn’t worry. What is a little brush between 
a guerilla band and a squadron of cavalry.? That isn’t anything. 
What if they took the heads.? Does that make any difference.? None 
at all. 

The Indians always took the scalps when Grandfather was at Fort 
Kearny after the war. Do you remember the cabinet in your father’s 
office with the arrowheads spread out on a shelf, and the eagle 
feathers of the war bonnets that hung on the wall, their plumes 
slanting, the smoked buckskin smell of the leggings and the shirts 
and the feel of the beaded moccasins.? Do you remember the great 
stave of the buffalo bow that leaned in a corner of the cabinet and 
the two quivers of hunting and war arrows, and how the bundle of 
shafts felt when you closed your hand around them.? 

Remember something like that. Remember something concrete 
and practical. Remember Grandfather’s saber, bright and well oiled 
in its dented scabbard and Grandfather showed you how the blade 
had been thinned from the many times it had been to the grinder’s. 
Remember Grandfather’s Smith and Wesson. It was a single action, 
officer’s model .32 caliber and there was no trigger guard. It had the 
softest, sweetest trigger pull you had ever felt and it was always 
well oiled and the bore was clean although the finish was all worn 
off and the brown metal of the barrel and the cylinder was worn 
smooth from the leather of the holster. It was kept in the holster 
with a U. S. on the flap in a drawer in the cabinet with its cleaning 
equipment and two hundred rounds of cartridges. Their cardboard 
boxes were wrapped and tied neady with waxed twine. 

You could take the pistol out of the drawer and hold it. “Handle 
it freely,” was Grandfather’s expression. But you could not play with 
it because it was “a serious weapon.” 

You asked Grandfather once if he had ever killed any one with 
it and he said, “Yes.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 337 

Then you said, “When, Grandfather?” and he said, “In the War 
of the Rebellion and afterwards.” 

You said, “Will you tell me about it. Grandfather?” 

And he said, “I do not care to speak about it, Robert.” 

Then after your father had shot himself with this pistol, and you 
had come home from school and they’d had the funeral, the coroner 
had returned it after the inquest saying, “Bob, I guess you might 
want to keep the gun. I’m supposed to hold it, but I know your 
dad set a lot of store by it because his dad packed it all through 
the War, besides out here when he first came out with the Cavalry, 
and it’s still a hell of a good gun. I had her out trying her this after- 
noon. She don’t throw much of a slug but you can hit things with 
her.” 

He had put the gun back in the drawer in the cabinet where it be- 
longed, but the next day he took it out and he had ridden up to the 
top of the high country above Red Lodge, with Chub, where they 
had built the road to Cooke City now over the pass and across the 
Bear Tooth plateau, and up there where the wind was thin and 
there was snow all summer on the hills they had stopped by the 
lake which was supposed to be eight hundred feet deep and was a 
deep green color, and Chub held the two horses and he climbed out 
on a rock and leaned over and saw his face in the still water, and 
saw himself holding the gun, and then he dropped it, holding it by 
the muzzle, and saw it go down making bubbles until it was just as 
big as a watch charm in that clear water, and then it was out of 
sight. Then he came back off the rock and when he swung up into 
the saddle he gave old Bess such a clout with the spurs she started 
to buck like an old rocking horse. He bucked her out along the 
shore of the lake and as soon as she was reasonable they went on 
back along the trail. 

“I know why you did that with the old gun, Bob,” Chub said. 

“Well, then we don’t have to talk about it,” he had said. 

They never talked about it and that was the end of Grandfather’s 
side arms except for the saber. He still had the saber in his trunk 
with the rest of his things at Missoula. 

I wonder what Grandfather would think of this situation, he ‘ 
thought. Gr idfather was a hell of a good soldier, everybody said. 
They said if he had been with Custer that day he never would have 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


338 

let him be sucked in that way. How could he ever not have seen the 
smoke nor the dust o£ all those lodges down there in the draw along 
the Little Big Horn unless there must have been a heavy morning 
mist? But there wasn’t any mist. 

I wish Grandfather were here instead of me. Well, maybe we will 
all be together by tomorrow night. If there should be any such damn 
fool business as a hereafter, and I’m sure there isn’t, he thought, 
I would certainly like to talk to him. Because there are a lot of 
things I would like to know. I have a right to ask him now because I 
have had to do the same sort of things myself. I don’t think he’d 
mind my asking now. I had no right to ask before. I understand 
him not telling me because he didn’t know me. But now I think 
that we would get along all right. I’d like to be able to talk to him 
now and get his advice. Hell, if I didn’t get advice I’d just like to 
talk to him. It’s a shame there is such a jump in time benveen ones 
like us. 

Then, as he thought, he realized that if there was any such thing 
as ever meeting, both he and his grandfather would be acutely em- 
barrassed by the presence of his father. Any one has a right to do 
it, he thought. But it isn’t a good thing to do. I understand it, but 
I do not approve of it. Lache was the word. But you do understand 
it? Sure, I understand it but. Yes, but. You have to be awfully oc- 
cupied with yourself to do a thing like that. 

Aw hell, I wish Grandfather was here, he thought. For about an 
hour anyway. Maybe he sent me what little I have through that 
other one that misused the gun. Maybe that is the only communica- 
tion that we have. But, damn it. Truly damn it, but I wish the time- 
lag wasn’t so long so that I could have learned from him what the 
other one never had to teach me. But suppose the fear he had to go 
through and dominate and just get rid of finally in four years of that 
and then in the Indian fighting, although in that, mostly, there 
couldn’t have been so much fear, had made a cobarde out of the 
other one the way second generation bullfighters almost always are? 
Suppose that? And maybe the good juice only came through 
straight again after passing through that one? 

I’ll never forget how sick it made me the first time I knew he was 
a cobarde. Go on, say it in English. Coward. It’s easier when you 
have it said and there is never any point in referring to a son of a 
bitch by some foreign term. He wasn’t any son of a bitch, though. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


339 

'He was just a coward and that was the worst luck any man could 
have. Because if he wasn t a coward he would have stood up to that 
woman and not let her bully him. 1 wonder what I would have been 
like if he had married a different woman.'* That’s something you’ll 
never know, he thought, and grinned. Maybe the bully in her helped 
to supply what was missing in the other. And you. Take it a litde 
easy. Don’t get to referring to the good juice and such other things 
until you are through tomorrow. Don’t be snotty too soon. And then 
don’t be snotty at all. We’ll see what sort of juice you have to- 
morrow. 

But he started thinking about Grandfather again. 

“George Custer was not an intelligent leader of cavalry, Robert,” 
his grandfather had said. “He was not even an intelligent man.” 

He remembered that when his grandfather said that he felt re- 
sentment that any one should speak against that figure in the buck- 
skin shirt, the yellow curls blowing, that stood on that hill holding 
a service revolver as the Sioux closed in around him in the old 
Anheuser-Busch lithograph that hung on the poolroom wall in Red 
Lodge. 

“He just had great ability to get himself in and out of trouble,” 
his grandfather went on, “and on the Little Big Horn he got into 
it but he couldn’t get out. 

“Now Phil Sheridan was an intelligent man and so was Jeb 
Stuart. But John Mosby was the finest cavalry leader that ever lived.” 

He had a letter in his things in the trunk at Missoula from Gen- 
eral Phil Sheridan to old Killy-the-Horse Kilpatrick that said his 
grandfather was a finer leader of irregular cavalry than John Mosby. 

I ought to tell Golz about my grandfather, he thought. He 
wouldn’t ever have heard of him though. He probably never even 
heard of John Mosby. The British all had heard of them thoygh 
because they had to study our Civil War much more than people 
did on the Continent. Karkov said after this was over I could go 
to the Lenin Institute in Moscow if I wanted to. He said I could go 
to the military academy of the Red Army if I wanted to do that. 
I wonder what Grandfather would think of that.? Grandfather, 
who never knowingly sat at table with a Democrat in his life. 

Well, I don’t want to be a soldier, he thought. I know that. So 
that’s out. I just want us to win this war. I guess really good soldiers 
are really good at very little else, he thought. That’s obviously un- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


340 

true. Look at Napoleon and Wellington. You’re very stupid this eve- 
ning, he thought. 

Usually his mind was very good company and tonight it had been 
when he thought about his grandfather. Then thinking of his father • 
had thrown him off. He understood his father and he forgave him 
everything and he pitied him but he was ashamed of him. 

You better not think at all, he told himself. Soon you will be 
with Maria and you won’t have to think. That’s the best way now 
that everything is worked out. When you have been concentrating 
so hard on something you can’t stop and your brain gets to racing 
hke a flywheel with the weight gone. You better just not think. 

But just suppose, he thought. Just suppose that when the planes un- 
load they smash those anti-tank guns and just blow hell out of the 
positions and the old tanks roll good up whatever hill it is for once 
and old Golz boots that bunch of drunks, clochards, bums, fa- 
natics and heroes that make up the Quatorzieme Brigade ahead of 
him, and I hjiow how good Duran’s people are in Golz’s other 
brigade, and we are in Segovia tomorrow night. 

Yes. Just suppose, he said to himself. I’ll setde for La Granja, he 
told himself. But you are going to have to blow that bridge, he 
suddenly knew absolutely. There won’t be any calling off. Because 
the way you have just been supposing there for a minute is how the 
possibilities of that attack look to those who have ordered it. Yes, 
you will have to blow the bridge, he knew truly. Whatever happens 
to Andres doesn’t matter. 

Coming down the trail there in the dark, alone with the good 
feeling that everything that had to be done was over for the next 
four hours, and with the confidence that had come from thinking 
back to concrete things, the knowledge that he would surely have to 
blow the bridge came to him almost with comfort. 

The uncertainty, the enlargement of the feeling of being uncer- 
tain, as when, through a misunderstanding of possible dates, one 
does not know whether the guests are really coming to a party, that 
had been with him ever since he had dispatched Andres with the 
report to Golz, had all dropped from him now. He was sure now 
that the festival would not be cancelled. It’s much better to be sure, 
he thought. It’s always much better to be sure. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 


So NOW they were in the robe again together and it was late in the 
last night. Maria lay close against him and he felt the long smooth- 
ness of her thighs against his and her breasts like two small hills that 
rise out of the long plain where there is a well, and the far country 
beyond the hills was the valley of her throat where his lips were. 
He lay very quiet and did not think and she stroked his head with 
her hand. 

“Roberto,” Maria said very softly and kissed him. “I am ashamed. 
I do not wish to disappoint thee but there is a great soreness and 
much pain. I do not think I would be any good to thee.” 

“There is always a great soreness and much pain,” he said. “Nay, 
rabbit. That is nothing. We will do nothing that makes pain.” 

“It is not that. It is that I am not good to receive thee as I wish 
to.” 

“That is of no importance. That is a passing thing. We are to- 
gether when we lie together.” 

“Yes, but I am ashamed. I think it was from when the things 
were done to me that it comes. Not from thee and me.” 

“Let us not talk of that.” 

“Nor do I wish to. I meant I could not bear to fail thee now on 
this night and so I sought to excuse myself.” 

“Listen, rabbit,” he said. “All such things pass and then there 
is no problem.” But he thought; it was not good luck for the last 
night. 

Then he was ashamed and said, “Lie close against me, rabbit. I 
love thee as much feeling thee against me in here in the dark as I 
love thee making love.” 

“I am deeply ashamed because I thought it might be again tonight 
as it was in the high country when we came down from El Sordo’s.” 

"Que va” he said to her. “That is not for every day. I like it thus 
as well as the other.” He lied, putting aside disappointment. “We 
will be here together quietly and we will sleep. Let us talk together. 
I know thee very litde from talking.” 

341 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


342 

“Should we speak of tomorrow and of thy work? I would like 
to be intelligent about thy work.” 

“No,” he said and relaxed completely into the length of the robe 
and lay now quietly with his cheek against her shoulder, his left 
arm under her head. “The most intelligent is not to talk about to- 
morrow nor what happened today. In this we do not discuss the 
losses and what we must do tomorrow we will do. Thou art not 
afraid?” 

“Que va” she said. “I am always afraid. But now I am afraid for 
thee so much I do not think of me.” 

“Thou must not, rabbit. I have been in many things. And worse 
than this,” he lied. 

Then suddenly surrendering to something, to the luxury of going 
into unreality, he said, “Let us talk of Madrid and of us in Madrid.” 

“Good,” she said. Then, “Oh, Roberto, I am sorry I have failed 
thee. Is there not some other thing that I can do for thee?” 

He stroked her head and kissed her and then lay close and re- 
laxed beside her, listening to the quiet of the night. 

“Thou canst talk with me of Madrid,” he said and thought; I’U 
keep any oversupply of that for tomorrow. I’ll need all of that there 
is tomorrow. There are no pine needles that need that now as I will 
need it tomorrow. Who was it cast his seed upon the ground in the 
Bible? Onan. How did Onan turn out? he thought. I don’t remem- 
ber ever hearing any more about Onan. He smiled in the dark. 

Then he surrendered again and let himself slip into it, feeling 
a voluptuousness of surrender into unreality that was like a sexual 
acceptance of something that could come in the night when there 
was no understanding, only the delight of acceptance. 

“My beloved,” he said, and kissed her. “Listen. The other night 
I was thinking about Madrid and I thought how I would get there 
and leave thee at the hotel while I went up to see people at the hotel 
of the Russians. But that was false. I would not leave thee at any 
hotel.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I will take care of thee. I will not ever leave thee. I will 
go with thee to the Seguridad to get papers. Then I will go with thee 
to buy those clothes that are needed.” 

“They are few, and I can buy them.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


343 

“Nay, they are many and we will go together and buy good ones 
and thou wilt be beautiful in them.” 

“I would rather we stayed in the room in the hotel and sent out 
for the clothes. Where is the hotel.?” 

“It is on the Plaza del Callao. We will be much in that room in 
that hotel. There is a wide bed with clean sheets and there is hot 
running water in the bathtub and there are two closets and I will 
keep my things in one and thou wilt take the other. And there are 
tall, wide windows that open, and outside, in the streets, there is the 
spring. Also I know good places to eat that are illegal but with good 
food, and I know shops where there is still wine and whiskey. And 
we will keep things to eat in the room for when we are hungry and 
also whiskey for when I wish a drink and I will buy thee man- 
zanilla.” 

“I would like to try the whiskey.” 

“But since it is difficult to obtain and if thou likest manzanilla.” 

“Keep thy whiskey, Roberto,” she said. “Oh, I love thee very much. 
Thou and thy whiskey that I could not have. What a pig thou art.” 

“Nay, you shall try it. But it is not good for a woman.” 

“And I have only had things that were good for a woman,” Maria 
said. “Then there in bed I will still wear my wedding shirt.?” 

“Nay. I will buy thee various nightgowns and pajamas too if 
you should prefer them.” 

“I will buy seven wedding shirts,” she said. “One for each day of 
the week. And I will buy a clean wedding shirt for thee. Dost ever 
wash thy shirt?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“I will keep everything clean and I will pour thy whiskey and put 
the water in it as it was done at Sordo’s. I will obtain olives and 
salted codfish and hazel nuts for thee to eat while thou drinkest 
and we will stay in the room for a month and never leave it. If I am 
fit to receive thee,” she said, suddenly unhappy. 

“That is nothing,” Robert Jordan told her. “Truly it is nothing. 
It is possible thou wert hurt there once and now there is a scar 
that makes a further hurting. Such a thing is possible. All such 
things pass. And also there are good doctors in Madrid if there is 
truly anything.” 

- “But all was good before,” she said pleadingly. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


344 

“That is the promise that all will be good again.” 

“Then let us talk again about Madrid.” She curled her legs between 
his and rubbed the top of her head against his shoulder. “But will 
I not be so ugly there with this cropped head that thou wilt be 
ashamed of me.?” 

“Nay. Thou art lovely. Thou hast a lovely face and a beautiful 
body, long and light, and thy skin is smooth and the color of burnt 
gold and every one will try to take thee from me.” 

“Que va, take me from thee,” she said. “No other man will ever 
touch me till I die. Take me from thee! Que va!’ 

“But many will try. Thou wilt see.” 

“They will see I love thee so that they will know it would be 
as unsafe as putting their hands into a caldron of melted lead to 
touch me. But thou .? When thou seest beautiful women of the same 
culture as thee.? Thou wilt not be ashamed of me.?” 

“Never. And I will marry thee.” 

“If you wish,” she said. “But since we no longer have the Church 
I do not think it carries importance.” 

“I would like us to be married.” 

“If you wish. But listen. If we were ever in another country where 
there still was the Church perhaps we could be married in it there.” 

“In my country they still have the Church,” he told her. “There we 
can be married in it if it means aught to thee. I have never been 
married. There is no problem.” 

“I am glad thou hast never been married,” she said. “But I am 
glad thou knowest about such things as you have told me for that 
means thou hast been with many women and the Pilar told me that 
it is only such men who are possible for husbands. But thou wilt 
not run with other women now.? Because it would kill me.” 

“I have never run with many women,” he said, truly. “Until thee I 
did not think that I could love one deeply.” 

She stroked his cheeks and then held her hands clasped behind 
his head. “Thou must have known very many.” 

“Not to love them.” 

“Listen. The Pilar told me something ” 

“Say it.” 

“No. It is better not to. Let us talk again about Madrid.” 

“What was it you were going to say.?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


345 


“I do not wish to say it.” 

“Perhaps it would be better to say it if it could be important.” 

“You think it is important?” 

“Yes.” 

“But how can you know when you do not know what it is?” 

“From thy manner.” 

“I will not keep it from you then. The Pilar told me that we would 
all die tomorrow and that you know it as well as she does and that 
you give it no importance. She said this not in criticism but in 
admiration.” 

“She said that?” he said. The crazy bitch, he thought, and he 
said, “That is more of her gypsy manure. That is the way old market 
women and cafe cowards talk. That is manuring obscenity.” He felt 
the sweat that came from under his armpits and slid down between 
his arm and his side and he said to himself, “So you are scared, eh?” 
and aloud he said, “She is a manure-mouthed superstitious bitch. 
Let us talk again of Madrid.” 

“Then you know no such thing?” 

“Of course not. Do not talk such manure,” he said, using a 
stronger, ugly word. 

But this time when he talked about Madrid there was no slipping 
into make-believe again. Now he was just lying to his girl and to 
himself to pass the night before battle and he knew it. He liked to 
do it, but all the luxury of the acceptance was gone. But he started 
again. 

“I have thought about thy hair,” he said. “And what we can do 
about it. You see it grows now all over thy head the same length 
like the fur of an animal and it is lovely to feel and I love it very 
much and it is beautiful and it flattens and rises Hke a wheatfield 
in the wind when I pass my hand over it.” 

“Pass thy hand over it.” 

He did and left his hand there and went on talking to her throat, 
as he felt his own throat swell. “But in Madrid I thought we could 
go together to the coiffeur’s and they could cut it neatly on the sides 
and in the back as they cut mine and that way it would look better 
in the town while it is growing out.” 

“I would look like thee,” she said and held him close to her. “And 
then I never would want to change it.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


346 

“Nay. It will grow all the time and that will only be to keep it neat 
at the start while it is growing long. How long wiU it take it to 
grow long.?” 

“Really long.?” 

“No. I mean to thy shoulders. It is thus I would have thee wear 
it.” 

“As Garbo in the cinema.?” 

“Yes,” he said thickly. 

Now the making believe was coming back in a great rush and he 
would take it all to him. It had him now, and again he surrendered 
and went on. “So it will hang straight to thy shoulders and curl at 
the ends as a wave of the sea curls, and it will be the color of ripe 
wheat and thy face the color of burnt gold and thine eyes the only 
color they could be with thy hair and thy skin, gold with the dark 
flecks in them, and I will push thy head back and look in thy eyes 
and hold thee tight against me ” 

“Where.?” 

“Anywhere. Wherever it is that we are. How long will it take 
for thy hair to grow.?” 

“I do not know because it never had been cut before. But I think 
in six months it should be long enough to hang well below my ears 
and in a year as long as thou couldst ever wish. But do you know 
what will happen first.?” 

“Tell me.” 

“We will be in the big clean bed in thy famous room in our 
famous hotel and we will sit in the famous bed together and look 
into the mirror of the armoire and there will be thee and there will 
be me in the glass and then I will turn to thee thus, and put my arms 
around thee thus, and then I will kiss thee thus.” 

Then they lay quiet and close together in the night, hot-aching, 
rigid, close together and holding her, Robert Jordan held closely too 
all those things that he knew could never happen, and he went on 
with it deliberately and said, “Rabbit, we wiU not always five in that 
hotel.” 

“Why not.?” 

“We can get an apartment in Madrid on that street that runs along 
the Parque of the Buen Retiro. I know an American woman who 
furnished apartments and rented them before the movement and I 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


347 

know how to get such an apartment for only the rent that was paid 
before the movement. There are apartments there that face on the 
park and you can see all of the park from the windows; the iron 
fence, the gardens, and the gravel walks and the green of the lawns 
where they touch the gravel, and the trees deep with shadows and the 
many fountains, and now the chestnut trees will be in bloom. In 
Madrid we can walk in the park and row on the lake if the water 
is back in it now.” 

“Why would the water be out.?” 

“They drained it in November because it made a mark to sight 
from when the planes came over for bombing. But I think that the 
water is back in it now. I am not sure. But even if there is no water 
in it we can walk through all the park away from the lake and 
there is a part that is like a forest with trees from all parts of the 
world with their names on them, with placards that tell what trees 
they are and where they came from.” 

“I would almost as soon go to the cinema,” Maria said. “But the 
trees sound very interesting and I will learn them all with thee if I 
can remember them.” 

“They are not as in a museum,” Robert Jordan said. “They grow 
naturally and there are hills in the park and part of the park is like 
a jungle. Then below it there is the book fair where along the side- 
walks there are hundreds of booths with second-hand books in them 
and now, since the movement, there are many books, stolen in the 
looting of the houses which have been bombed and from the houses 
of the fascists, and brought to the book fair by those who stole them. 
I could spend all day every day at the stalls of the book fair as I 
once did in the days before the movement, if I ever could have any 
time in Madrid.” 

“While thou art visiting the book fair I will occupy myself with 
the apartment,” Maria said. “Will we have enough money for a 
servant.?” 

“Surely. I can get Petra who is at the hotel if she pleases thee. She 
cooks well and is clean. I have eaten there with newspapermen that 
she cooks for. They have electric stoves in their rooms.” 

“If you wish her,” Maria said. “Or I can find some one. But wilt 
thou not be away much with thy work? They would not let me go 
with thee on such work as this.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


348 

“Perhaps I can get work in Madrid. I have done this work now 
for a long time and I have fought since the start of the movement. 
It is possible that they would give me work now in Madrid. I have 
never asked for it. I have always been at the front or in such work 
as this. 

“Do you know that until I met thee I have never asked for any- 
thing.? Nor wanted anything.? Nor thought of anything except the 
movement and the winning of this war.? Truly I have been very 
pure in my ambitions. I have worked much and now I love thee 
and,” he said it now in a complete embracing of all that would not 
be, “I love thee as I love all that we have fought for. I love thee as I 
love liberty and dignity and the rights of all men to work and not 
be hungry. I love thee as I love Madrid that we have defended and 
as I love all my comrades that have died. And many have died. 
Many. Many. Thou canst not think how many. But I love thee as 
I love what I love most in the world and I love thee more. I love 
thee very much, rabbit. More than I can tell thee. But I say this now 
to tell thee a little. I have never had a wife and now I have thee for 
a wife and I am happy.” 

“I will make thee as good a wife as I can,” Maria said. “Clearly 
I am not well trained but I will try to make up for that. If we Hve in 
Madrid; good. If we must live in any other place; good. If we Uve 
nowhere and I can go with thee; better. If we go to thy country I 
will learn to talk Ingles like the most Ingles that there is. I will study 
all their manners and as they do so will I do.” 

“Thou wilt be very comic.” 

“Surely. I will make mistakes but you will tell me and I will never 
make them twice, or maybe only twice. Then in thy country if thou 
art lonesome for our food I can cook for thee. And I will go to a 
school to learn to be a wife, if there is such a school, and study at it.” 

“There are such schools but thou dost not need that schoohng.” 

“Pilar told me that she thought they existed in your country. She 
had read of them in a periodical. And she told me also that I must 
learn to speak Ingles and to speak it well so thou wouldst never be 
ashamed of me.” 

“When did she tell you this.?” 

“Today while we were packing. Constantly she talked to me about 
what I should do to be thy wife.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 349 

I guess she was going to Madrid too, Robert Jordan thought, and 
said, “What else did she say?” 

“She said I must take care of my body and guard the line of my 
figure as though I were a bullfighter. She said this was of great 
importance.” 

“It is,” Robert Jordan said. “But thou hast not to worry about 
that for many years.” 

“No. She said those of our race must watch that always as it can 
come suddenly. She told me she was once as slender as I but that 
in those days women did not take exercise. She told me what ex- 
ercises I should take and that I must not eat too much. She told me 
which things not to eat. But I have forgotten and must ask her 
again.” 

“Potatoes,” he said. 

“Yes,” she went on. “It was potatoes and things that are fried. 
Also when I told her about this of the soreness she said I must not 
tell thee but must support the pain and not let thee know. But I told 
thee because I do not wish to lie to thee ever and also I feared that 
thou might think we did not have the joy in common any longer 
and that other, as it was in the high country, had not truly hap- 
pened.” 

“It was right to tell me.” 

“Truly? For I am ashamed and I will do anything for thee that 
thou should wish. Pilar has told me of things one can do for a 
husband.” 

“There is no need to do anything. What we have we have to- 
gether and we will keep it and guard it. I love thee thus lying beside 
thee and touching thee and knowing thou art truly there and when 
thou art ready again we will have all.” 

“But hast thou not necessities that I can care for? She explained 
that to me.” 

“Nay. We will have our necessities together. I have no necessities 
apart from thee.” 

“That seems much better to me. But understand always that I 
will do what you wish. But thou must tell me for I have great 
ignorance and much of what she told me I did not understand 
clearly. For I was ashamed to ask and she is of such great and varied 
wisdom.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


350 

“Rabbit,” he said. “Thou art very wonderful.” 

“Que va,” she said. “But to try to learn all of that which goes into 
wifehood in a day while we are breaking camp and packing for a 
battle with another battle passing in the country above is a rare 
thing and if I make serious mistakes thou must tell me for I love 
thee. It could be possible for me to remember things incorrectly and 
much that she told me was very comphcated.” 

“What else did she tell thee.'*” 

“Pues so many things I cannot remember them. She said I could 
tell thee of what was done to me if I ever began to think of it again 
because thou art a good man and already have understood it all. But 
that it were better never to speak of it unless it came on me as a 
black thing as it had been before and then that telling it to thee 
might rid me of it.” 

“Does it weigh on thee now.?” 

“No. It is as though it had never happened since we were first 
together. There is the sorrow for my parents always. But that there 
will be always. But I would have thee know that which you should 
know for thy own pride if I am to be thy wife. Never did I submit 
to any one. Always I fought and always it took two of them or more 
to do me the harm. One would sit on my head and hold me. I tell 
thee this for thy pride.” 

“My pride is in thee. Do not tell it.” 

“Nay, I speak of thy own pride which it is necessary to have in thy 
wife. And another thing. My father was the mayor of the village and 
an honorable man. My mother was an honorable woman and a good 
Catholic and they shot her with my father because of the pohtics of 
my father who was a Republican. I saw both of them shot and my 
father said, ‘Vim la Republica,’ when they shot him standing against 
the wall of the slaughterhouse of our village. 

“My mother standing against the same wall said, “Viva my hus- 
band who was the Mayor of this village,’ and I hoped they would 
shoot me too and I was going to say ‘Viva la Republica y vivan mis 
padres’ but instead there was no shooting but instead the doing of 
the things. 

“Listen. I will tell thee of one thing since it affects us. After the 
shooting at the matadero they took us, those relatives who had seen 
it but were not shot, back from the matadero up the steep tuli into 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


351 

the main square of the town. Nearly all were weeping but some 
were numb with what they had seen and the tears had dried in 
them. I myself could not cry. I did not notice anything that passed 
for I could only see my father and my mother at the moment of the 
shooting and my mother saying, ‘Long live my husband who is 
Mayor of this village,’ and this was in my head like a scream that 
would not die but kept on and on. For my mother was not a Re- 
publican and she would not say, ‘Viva la Republican but only Viva 
my father who lay there, on his face, by her feet. 

“But what she had said, she had said very loud, like a shriek and 
then they shot and she fell and I tried to leave the line to go to her 
but we were all tied. The shooting was done by the guardia civil 
and they were still there waiting to shoot more when the Falangists 
herded us away and up the hill leaving the guardia civiles leaning 
on their rifles and leaving all the bodies there against the wall. We 
were tied by the wrists in a long line of girls and women and they 
herded us up by the hill and through the streets to the square and in 
the square they stopped in front of the barbershop which was across 
the square from the city hall. 

“Then the two men looked at us and one said, ‘That is the daugh- 
ter of the Mayor,’ and the other said, ‘Commence with her.’ 

“Then they cut the rope that was on each of my wrists, one saying 
to others of them, ‘Tie up the Hne,’ and these two took me by the 
arms and into the barbershop and lifted me up and put me in the 
barber’s chair and held me there. 

“I saw my face in the mirror of the barbershop and the faces of 
those who were holding me and the faces of three others who were 
leaning over me and I knew none of their faces but in the glass I 
saw myself and them, but they saw only me. And it was as though 
one were in the dentist’s chair and there were many dentists and 
they were all insane. My own face I could hardly recognize because 
my grief had changed it but I looked at it and knew that it was me. 
But my grief was so great that I had no fear nor any feeUng but my 
grief. 

“At that time I wore my hair in two hraids and as I watched in 
the mirror one of them Ufted one of the braids and pulled on it so 
it hurt me suddenly through my grief and then cut it off close to 
my head with a razor. And I saw myself with one braid and a slash 


352 FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 

where the other had been. Then he cut off the other braid but with- 
out pulling on it and the razor made a small cut on my ear and I saw 
blood come from it. Canst thou feel the scar with thy finger?” 

“Yes. But would it be better not to talk of this?” 

“This is nothing. I will not talk of that which is bad. So he had cut 
both braids close to my head with a razor and the others laughed 
and I did not even feel the cut on my ear and then he stood in front 
of me and struck me across the face with the braids while the other 
two held me and he said, ‘This is how we make Red nuns. This will 
show thee how to unite with thy proletarian brothers. Bride of the 
Red Christ!’ 

“And he struck me again and again across the face with the 
braids which had been mine and then he put the two of them in 
my mouth and tied them tight around my neck, knotting them in 
the back to make a gag and the two holding me laughed. 

“And all of them who saw it laughed and when I saw them laugh 
in the mirror I commenced to cry because until then I had been too 
frozen in myself from the shooting to be able to cry. 

“Then the one who had gagged me ran a clippers all over my 
head; first from the forehead all the way to the back of the neck and 
then across the top and then all over my head and close behind my 
ears and they held me so I could see into the glass of the barber’s 
mirror all the time that they did this and I could not believe it as I 
saw it done and I cried and I cried but I could not look away from 
the horror that my face made with the mouth open and the braids 
tied in it and my head coming naked under the clippers. 

“And when the one with the clippers was finished he took a bottle 
of iodine from the shelf of the barber (they had shot the barber too 
for he belonged to a syndicate, and he lay in the doorway of the shop 
and they had lifted me over him as they brought me in) and with 
the glass wand that is in the iodine bottle he touched me on the 
ear where it had been cut and the small pain of that came through 
my grief and through my horror. 

“Then he stood in front of me and wrote U. H. P. on my forehead 
with the iodine, lettering it slowly and carefully as though he were 
an artist and I saw all of this as it happened in the mirror and I no 
longer cried for my heart was frozen in me for my father and my 
mother and what happened to me now was nothing and I knew it. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


353 

“Then when he had finished the lettering, the Falangist stepped 
back and looked at me to examine his work and then he put down 
the iodine bottle and picked up the clippers and said, ‘Next,’ and 
they took me out of the barbershop holding me tight by each arm 
and I stumbled over the barber lying there still in the doorway on 
his back with his gray face up, and we nearly collided with Con- 
cepcion Gracia, my best friend, that two of them were bringing in 
and when she saw me she did not recognize me, and then she rec- 
ognized me, and she screamed, and I could hear her screaming all 
the time they were shoving me across the square, and into the door- 
way, and up the stairs of the city hall and into the office of my father 
where they laid me onto the couch. And it was there that the bad 
things were done.” 

“My rabbit,” Robert Jordan said and held her as close and as gently 
as he could. But he was as full of hate as any man could be. “Do not 
talk more about it. Do not tell me any more for I cannot bear my 
hatred now.” 

She was stiff and cold in his arms and she said, “Nay. I will never 
talk more of it. But they are bad people and I would like to kill 
some of them with thee if I could. But I have told thee this only 
for thy pride if I am to be thy wife. So thou wouldst understand.” 

“I am glad you told me,” he said. “For tomorrow, with luck, we 
will kill plenty.” 

“But will we kill Falangists? It was they who did it.” 

“They do not fight,” he said gloomily. “They kill at the rear. It 
is not them we fight in battle.” 

“But can we not kill them in some way ? I would like to kill some 
very much.” 

“I have killed them,” he said. “And we will kill them again. At 
the trains we have killed them.” 

“I would like to go for a train with thee,” Maria said. “The time 
of the train that Pilar brought me back from I was somewhat crazy. 
Did she tell thee how I was?” 

“Yes. Do not talk of it.” 

“I was dead in my head with a numbness and all I could do was 
cry. But there is another thing that I must tell thee. This I must. 
Then perhaps thou wilt not marry me. But, Roberto, if thou should 
not wish to marry me, can we not, then, just be always together?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


354 

“I will marry thee.” 

“Nay. I had forgotten this. Perhaps you should not. It is possible 
that I can never bear thee either a son or a daughter for the Pilar 
says that if I could it would have happened to me with the things 
which were done. I must tell thee that. Oh, I do not know why I 
had forgotten that.” 

“It is of no importance, rabbit,” he said. “First it may not be true. 
That is for a doctor to say. Then I would not wish to bring either 
a son or a daughter into this world as this world is. And also you 
take all the love I have to give.” 

“I would like to bear thy son and thy daughter,” she told him. 
“And how can the world be made better if there are no children of 
us who fight against the fascists.?” 

“Thou,” he said. “I love thee. Nearest thou? And now we must 
sleep, rabbit. For I must be up long before daylight and the dawn 
comes early in this month.” 

“Then is it all right about the last thing I said? We can still be 
married?” 

“We are married, now. I marry thee now. Thou art my wife. But 
go to sleep, my rabbit, for there is little time now.” 

“And we will truly be married? Not just a talking?” 

“Truly.” 

“Then I will sleep and think of that if I wake.” 

“I, too.” 

“Good night, my husband.” 

“Good night,” he said. “Good night, wife.” 

He heard her breathing steadily and regularly now arid he knew 
she was asleep and he lay awake and very still not wanting to waken 
her by moving. He thought of all the part she had not told him and 
he lay there hating and he was pleased there would be killing in the 
morning. But I must not take any of it personally, he thought. 

Though how can I keep from it? I know that we did dreadful 
things to them too. But it was because we were uneducated and 
knew no better. But they did that on purpose and deliberately. Those 
who did that are the last flowering of what their educadon has 
produced. Those are the flowers of Spanish chivalry. What a people 
they have been. What sons of bitches from Cortez, Pizarro, Menendez 
de Avila all down through Enrique Lister to Pablo. And what won- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


355 

derful people. There is no finer and no worse people in the world. 
No kinder people and no crueler. And who understands them.? Not 
me, because if I did I would forgive it all. To understand is to for- 
give. That’s not true. Forgiveness has been exaggerated. Forgiveness 
is a Christian idea and Spain has never been a Christian country. It 
has always had its own special idol worship within the Church, 
Otra Virgen mas. I suppose that was why they had to destroy the 
virgins of their enemies. Surely it was deeper with them, with the 
Spanish religion fanatics, than it was with the people. The people 
had grown away from the Church because the Church was in the 
government and the government had always been rotten. This was 
the only country that the reformation never reached. They were 
paying for the Inquisition now, all right. 

Well, it was something to think about. Something to keep your 
mind from worrying about your work. It was sounder than pre- 
tending. God, he had done a lot of pretending tonight. And Pilar 
had been pretending all day. Sure. What if they were killed to- 
morrow ? What did it matter as long as they did the bridge properly .? 
That was all they had to do tomorrow. 

It didn’t. You couldn’t do these things indefinitely. But you weren’t 
supposed to live forever. Maybe I have had all my life in three days, 
he thought. If that’s true I wish we would have spent the last night 
differently. But last nights are never any good. Last nothings are any 
good. Yes, last words were good sometimes. “Viva my husband who 
was Mayor of this town” was good. 

He knew it was good because it made a tingle run all over him 
when he said it to himself. He leaned over and kissed Maria who 
did not wake. In English he whispered very quietly, “I’d like to 
marry you, rabbit. I’m very proud your family.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 


On that same night in Madrid there were many people at the Hotel 
Gaylord. A car pulled up under the porte-cochere of the hotel, its 
headlights painted over with blue calcimine and a htde man in 
black riding boots, gray riding breeches and a short, gray high- 
buttoned jacket stepped out and returned the salute of the two sen- 
tries as he opened the door, nodded to the secret policeman who sat 
at the concierge’s desk and stepped into the elevator. There were two 
sentries seated on chairs inside the door, one on each side of the 
marble entrance hall, and these only looked up as the Uttle man 
passed them at the door of the elevator. It was their business to feel 
every one they did not know along the flanks, under the armpits, 
and over the hip pockets to see if the person entering carried a pistol 
and, if he did, have him check it with the concierge. But they knew 
the short man in riding boots very well and they hardly looked up 
as he passed. 

The apartment where he lived in Gaylord’s was crowded as he en- 
tered. People were sitting and standing about and talking together 
as in any drawing room and the men and the women were drinking 
vodka, whiskey and soda, and beer from small glasses filled from 
great pitchers. Four of the men were in uniform. The others wore 
windbreakers or leather jackets and three of the four women were 
dressed in ordinary street dresses while the fourth, who was hag- 
gardly thin and dark, wore a sort of severely cut miUtiawoman’s 
uniform with a skirt with high boots under it. 

When he came into the room, Karkov went at once to the woman 
in the uniform and bowed to her and shook hands. She was his 
wife and he said something to her in Russian that no one could 
hear and for a moment the insolence that had been in his eyes as 
he entered the room was gone. Then it lighted again as he saw the 
mahogany-colored head and the love-lazy face of the well-constructed 
girl who was his mistress and he strode with short, precise steps over 
to her and bowed and shook her hand in such a way that no one 
could tell it was not a mimicry of his greeting to his wife. His wife 

356 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 357 

had not looked after him as he walked across the room. She was 
standing with a tall, good-looking Spanish officer and they were 
talking Russian now. 

“Your great love is getting a little fat,” Karkov was saying to the 
girl. “All of our heroes are fattening now as we approach the second 
year.” He did not look at the man he was speaking of. 

“You are so ugly you would be jealous of a toad,” the girl told 
him cheerfully. She spoke in German. “Can I go with thee to the of- 
fensive tomorrow.?” 

“No. Nor is there one.” 

“Every one knows about it,” the girl said. “Don’t be so mysterious. 
Dolores is going. I will go with her or Carmen. Many people are 
going.” 

“Go with whoever will take you,” Karkov said. “I will not.” 

Then he turned to the girl and asked seriously, “Who told thee of 
it .? Be exact.” 

“Richard,” she said as seriously. 

Karkov shrugged his shoulders and left her standing. 

“Karkov,” a man of middle height with a gray, heavy, sagging 
face, puffed eye pouches and a pendulous under-lip called to him in 
a dyspeptic voice. “Have you heard the good news.?” 

Karkov went over to him and the man said, “I only have it now. 
Not ten minutes ago. It is wonderful. All day the fascists have been 
fighting among themselves near Segovia. They have been forced 
to quell the mutinies with automatic rifle and machine gun fire. In 
the afternoon they were bombing their own troops with planes.” 

“Yes.?” asked Karkov. 

“That is true,” the puffy-eyed man said. “Dolores brought the 
news herself. She was here with the news and was in such a state 
of radiant exultation as I have never seen. The truth of the news 
shone from her face. That great face—” he said happily. 

“That great face,” Karkov said with no tone in his voice at all. 

“If you could have heard her,” the puffy-eyed man said. “The 
news itself shone from her with a light that was not of this world. 
In her voice you could tell the truth of what she said. I am putting 
it in an article for Izvestia. It was one of the greatest moments of 
the war to me when I heard the report in that great voice where pity, 
compassion and truth are blended. Goodness and truth shine from 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


358 

her as from a true saint of the people. Not for nothing is she called 
La Pasionaria.” 

“Not for nothing,” Karkov said in a dull voice. “You better write 
it for Izvestia now, before you forget that last beautiful lead.” 

“That is a woman that is not to joke about. Not even by a cynic 
like you,” the puffy-eyed man said. “If you could have been here 
to hear her and to see her face.” 

“That great voice,” Karkov said. “That great face. Write it,” he 
said. “Don’t tell it to me. Don’t waste whole paragraphs on me. Go 
and write it now.” 

“Not just now.” 

“I think you’d better,” Karkov said and looked at him, and then 
looked away. The puffy-eyed man stood there a couple of minutes 
more holding his glass of vodka, his eyes, puffy as they were, 
absorbed in the beauty of what he had seen and heard and then he 
left the room to write it. 

Karkov went over to another man of about forty-eight, who was 
short, chunky, jovial-looking with pale blue eyes, thinning blond 
hair and a gay mouth under a bristly yellow moustache. This man 
was in uniform. He was a divisional commander and he was a 
Hungarian. 

“Were you here when the Dolores was here?” Karkov asked the 
man. 

“Yes.” 

“What was the stuff?” 

“Something about the fascists fighting among themselves. Beauti- 
ful if true.” 

“You hear much talk of tomorrow.” 

“Scandalous. All the journalists should be shot as well as most of 
the people in this room and certainly the intriguing German unmen- 
tionable of a Richard. Whoever gave that Sunday juggler command 
of a brigade should be shot. Perhaps you and me should be shot 
too. It is possible,” the General laughed. “Don’t suggest it though.” 

“That is a thing I never like to talk about,” Karkov said. “That 
American who comes here sometimes is over there. You know the 
one, Jordan, who is with the partizan group. He is there where this 
business they spoke of is supposed to happen.” 

“Well, he should have a report through on it tonight then,” the 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


359 

General said. “They don’t like me down there or I’d go down and 
find out for you. He works with Golz on this, doesn’t he.? You’ll 
see Golz tomorrow.” 

“Early tomorrow.” 

“Keep out of his way until it’s going well,” the General said. 
“He hates you bastards as much as I do. Though he has a much 
better temper.” 

“But about this ” 

“It was probably the fascists having manoeuvres,” the General 
grinned. “Well, we’ll see if Golz can manoeuvre them a little. Let 
Golz try his hand at it. We manoeuvred them at Guadalajara.” 

“I hear you are travelling too,” Karkov said, showing his bad 
teeth as he smiled. The General was suddenly angry. 

“And me too. Now is the mouth on me. And on all of us always. 
This filthy sewing circle of gossip. One man who could keep his 
mouth shut could save the country if he believed he could.” 

“Your friend Prieto can keep his mouth shut.” 

“But he doesn’t believe he can win. How can you win without 
belief in the people.?” 

“You decide that,” Karkov said. “I am going to get a little sleep.” 

He left the smoky, gossip-filled room and went into the back 
bedroom and sat down on the bed and pulled his boots off. He 
could still hear them talking so he shut the door and opened the 
window. He did not bother to undress because at two o’clock he 
would be starting for the drive by Colmenar, Cerceda, and Nava- 
cerrada up to the front where Golz would be attacking in the 
morning. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 


It was two o’clock in the morning when Pilar waked him. As her 
hand touched him he thought, at first, it was Maria and he rolled 
toward her and said, “Rabbit.” Then the woman’s big hand shook 
his shoulder and he was suddenly, completely and absolutely awake 
and his hand was around the butt of the pistol that lay alongside of 
his bare right leg and all of him was as cocked as the pistol with its 
safety catch slipped off. 

* In the dark he saw it was Pilar and he looked at the dial of his 
wrist watch with the two hands shining in the short angle close to 
the top and seeing it was only two, he said, “What passes with thee, 
woman.?” 

“Pablo is gone,” the big woman said to him. 

Robert Jordan put on his trousers and shoes. Maria had not waked. 

“When.?” he asked. 

“It must be an hour.” 

“And.?” 

“He has taken something of thine,” the woman said miserably. 

“So. What.?” 

“I do not know,” she told him. “Come and see.” 

In the dark they walked over to the entrance of the cave, ducked 
under the blanket and went in. Robert Jordan followed her in the 
dead-ashes, bad-air and sleeping-men smell of the cave, shining his 
electric torch so that he would not step on any of those who were 
sleeping on the floor. Anselmo woke and said, “Is it time.?” 

“No,” Robert Jordan whispered. “Sleep, old one.” 

The two sacks were at the head of Pilar’s bed which was screened 
off with a hanging blanket from the rest of the cave. The bed smelt 
stale and sweat-dried and sickly-sweet the way an Indian’s bed does 
as Robert Jordan knelt on it and shone the torch on the two sacks. 
There was a long slit from top to bottom in each one. Holding the 
torch in his left hand, Robert Jordan felt in the first sack with his 
right hand. This was the one that he carried his robe in and it should 
not be very full. It was not very full. There was some wire in it still 

360 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


361 

but the square wooden box of the exploder was gone. So was the 
cigar box with the carefully wrapped and packed detonators. So 
was the screw-top tin with the fuse and the caps. 

Robert Jordan felt in the other sack. It was still full of explosive. 
There might be one packet missing. 

He stood up and turned to the woman. There is a hollow empty 
feeling that a man can have when he is waked too early in the morn- 
ing that is almost like the feeling of disaster and he had this multi- 
plied a thousand times. 

“And this is what you call guarding one’s materials,” he said. ’ 

“I slept with my head against them and one arm touching them,” 
Pilar told him. 

“You slept well.” 

“Listen,” the woman said. “He got up in the night and I said, ' 
‘Where do you go, Pablo?’ ‘To urinate, woman,’ he told me and I 
slept again. When I woke again I did not know what time had 
passed but I thought, when he was not there, that he had gone down 
to look at the horses as was his custom. Then,” she finished naiser- 
ably, “when he did not come I worried and when I worried I felt 
of the sacks to be sure all was well and there were the slit places 
and I came to thee.” 

“Come on,” Robert Jordan said. 

They were outside now and it was still so near the middle of 
the night that you could not feel the morning coming. 

“Can he get out with the horses other ways than by the sentry?” 

“Two ways.” 

“Who’s at the top?” 

“Eladio.” 

Robert Jordan said nothing more until they reached the meadow 
where the horses were staked out to feed. There were three horses 
feeding in the meadow. The big bay and the gray were gone. 

“How long ago do you think it was he left you?” 

“It must have been an hour.” 

“Then that is that,” Robert Jordan said. “I go to get what is left 
of my sacks and go back to bed.” 

“I will guard them.” 

“Que va, you will guard them. You’ve guarded them once already.” 

“Ingles,” the woman said, “I feel in regard to this as you do. There 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


362 

is nothing I would not do to bring back thy property. You have no 
need to hurt me. We have both been betrayed by Pablo.” 

As she said this Robert Jordan realized that he could not afford the 
luxury of being bitter, that he could not quarrel with this woman. 
He had to work with this woman on that day that was already two 
hours and more gone. 

He put his hand on her shoulder. “It is nothing, Pilar,” he told 
her. “What is gone is of small importance. We shall improvise 
something that will do as well.” 

“But what did he take-i*” 

“Nothing, woman. Some luxuries that one permits oneself.” 

“Was it part of thy mechanism for the exploding?” 

“Yes. But there are other ways to do the exploding. Tell me, did 
Pablo not have caps and fuse? Surely they would have equipped 
him with those.” 

“He has taken them,” she said miserably. “I looked at once for 
them. They are gone, too.” 

They walked back through the woods to the entrance of the cave. 

“Get some sleep,” he said. “We are better off with Pablo gone.” 

“I go to see Eladio.” 

“He will have gone another way.” 

“I go anyway. I have betrayed thee with my lack of smartness.” 

“Nay,” he said. “Get some sleep, woman. We must be under way 
at four.” 

He went into the cave with her and brought out the two sacks, 
carrying them held together in both arms so that nothing could spill 
from the slits. 

“Let me sew them up.” 

“Before we start,” he said softly. “I take them not against you but 
so that I can sleep.” 

“I must have them early to sew them.” 

“You shall have them early,” he told her. “Get some sleep, woman.” 

“Nay,” she said. “I have failed thee and I have failed the RepubUc.” 

“Get thee some sleep, woman,” he told her gendy. “Get thee some 
sleep.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 


The fascists held the crests of the hills here. Then there was a valley 
that no one held except for a fascist post in a farmhouse with its 
outbuildings and its barn that they had fortified. Andres, on his 
way to Golz with the message from Robert Jordan, made a wide 
circle around this post in the dark. He knew where there was a 
trip wire laid that fired a set-gun and he located it in the dark, stepped 
over it, and started along the small stream bordered with poplars 
whose leaves were moving with the night wind. A cock crowed at 
the farmhouse that was the fascist post and as he walked along the 
stream he looked back and saw, through the trunks of the poplars, 
a light showing at the lower edge of one of the windows of the 
farmhouse. The night was quiet and clear and Andres left the 
stream and struck across the meadow. 

There were four haycocks in the meadow that had stood there 
ever since the fighting in July of the year before. No one had ever 
carried the hay away and the four seasons that had passed had flat- 
tened the cocks and made the hay worthless. 

Andres thought what a waste it was as he stepped over a trip wire 
that ran between two of the haycocks. But the Republicans would 
have had to carry the hay up the steep Guadarrama slope that rose 
beyond the meadow and the fascists did not need it, I suppose, he 
thought. 

They have all the hay they need and all the grain. They have 
much, he thought. But we will give them a blow tomorrow morn- 
ing. Tomorrow morning we will give them something for Sordo. 
What barbarians they are! But in the morning there will be dust on 
the road. 

He wanted to get this message-taking over and be back for the 
attack on the posts in the morning. Did he really want to get back 
though or did he only pretend he wanted to be back? He knew 
the reprieved feeling he had felt when the Ingles had told him he 
was to go with the message. He had faced the prospect of the morn- 

363 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


364 

ing calmly. It was what was to be done. He had voted for it and 
would do it. The wiping out of Sordo had impressed him deeply. 
But, after all, that was Sordo. That was not them. What they had to 
do they would do. 

But when the Ingles had spoken to him of the message he had 
felt the way he used to feel when he was a boy and he had wakened 
in the morning of the festival of his village and heard it raining hard 
so that he knew that it would be too wet and that the bullbaiting in 
the .square would be cancelled. 

He loved the bullbaiting when he was a boy and he looked for- 
ward to it and to the moment when he would be in the square in the 
hot sun and the dust with the carts ranged all around to close the 
exits and to make a closed place into which the bull would come, 
sliding down out of his box, braking with all four feet, when they 
pulled the end-gate up. He looked forward with excitement, delight 
and sweating fear to the moment when, in the square, he would 
hear the clatter of the bull’s horns knocking against the wood of his 
travelling box, and then the sight of him as he came, sliding, braking 
out into the square, his head up, his nostrils wide, his ears twitching, 
dust in the sheen of his black hide, dried crut splashed on his flanks, 
watching his eyes set wide apart, unblinking eyes under the wide- 
spread horns as smooth and solid as driftwood polished by the sand, 
the sharp tips uptilted so that to see them did something to your 
heart. 

He looked forward all the year to that moment when the bull would 
■ come out into the square on that day when you watched his eyes 
while he made his choice of whom in the square he would attack in 
that sudden head-lowering, horn-reaching, quick cat-gaUop that 
stopped your heart dead when it started. He had looked forward to 
that moment all the year when he was a boy; but the feeling when the 
Ingles gave the order about the message was the same as when you 
woke to hear the reprieve of the rain falling on the slate roof, against 
the stone wall and into the puddles on the dirt street of the village. 

He had always been very brave with the bull in those village capeas, 
as brave as any in the village or of the other near-by villages, and 
not for anything would he have missed it any year although he did 
not go to the capeas of other villages. He was able to wait still when 
the bull charged and only jumped aside at the last moment. He 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 365 

waved a sack under his muzzle to draw him off when the bull had 
some one down and many times he had held and pulled on the horns 
when the bull had some one on the ground and pulled sideways on 
the horn, had slapped and kicked him in the face undl he left the 
man to charge some one else. 

He had held the bull’s tail to pull him away from a fallen man, 
bracing hard and pulling and twisting. Once he had pulled the tail 
around with one hand until he could reach a horn with the other 
and when the bull had lifted his head to charge him he had run 
backwards, circling with the bull, holding the tail in one hand and 
the horn in the other until the crowd had swarmed onto the bull 
with their knives and stabbed him. In the dust and the heat, the 
shouting, the bull and man and wine smell, he had been in the first 
of the crowd that threw themselves onto the bull and he knew the 
feeling when the bull rocked and bucked under him and he lay 
across the withers with one arm locked around the base of the horn 
and his hand holding the other horn tight, his fingers locked as his 
body tossed and wrenched and his left arm felt as though it would 
tear from the socket while he lay on the hot, dusty, bristly, tossing 
slope of muscle, the ear clenched tight in his teeth, and drove his 
knife again and again and again into the swelling, tossing bulge of 
the neck that was now spouting hot on his fist as he let his weight 
hang on the high slope of the withers and banged and banged into 
the neck. 

The first time he had bit the ear like that and held onto it, his 
neck and jaws stiffened against the tossing, they had all made fun 
of him afterwards. But though they joked him about it they had 
great respect for him. And every year after that he had to repeat it. 
They called him the bulldog of Villaconejos and joked about him 
eating cattle raw. But every one in the village looked forward to 
seeing him do it and every year he knew that first the bull would 
come out, then there would be the charges and the tossing, and then 
when they yelled for the rush for the killing he would place h’mself 
to rush through the other attackers and leap for his hold. Then, 
when it was over, and the bull settled and sunk dead finally under 
the weight of the killers, he would stand up and walk away ashamed 
of the ear part, but also as proud as a man could be. And he would 
go through the carts to wash his hands at the stone fountain and 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


366 

men would clap him on the back and hand him wineskins and say, 
“Hurray for you, Bulldog. Long life to your mother.” 

Or they would say, “That’s what it is to have a pair of cojonesl 
Year after year!” 

Andres would be ashamed, empty-feeling, proud and happy, and 
he would shake them all off and wash his hands and his right arm 
and wash his knife well and then take one of the wineskins and 
rinse the ear-taste out of his mouth for that year; spitting the wine 
on the stone flags of the plaza before he lifted the wineskin high and 
let the wine spurt into the back of his mouth. 

Surely. He v/as the Bull Dog of Villaconejos and not for anything 
would he have missed doing it each year in his village. But he knew 
there was no better feeling than that one the sound of the rain gave 
when he knew he would not have to do it. 

But I must go back, he told himself. There is no question but that 
I must go back for the affair of the posts and the bridge. My brother 
Eladio is there, who is of my own bone and flesh. Anselmo, Primi- 
tivo, Fernando, Agustin, Rafael, though clearly he is not serious, 
the two women, Pablo and the Ingles, though the Ingles does not 
count since he is a foreigner and under orders. They are all in for it. 
It is impossible that I should escape this proving through the accident 
of a message. I must deliver this message now quickly and well and 
then make all haste to return in time for the assault on the posts. It 
would be ignoble of me not to participate in this action because of 
the accident of this message. That could not be clearer. And besides, 
he told himself, as one who suddenly remembers that there will be 
pleasure too in an engagement only the onerous aspects of which 
he has been considering, and besides I will enjoy the killing of some 
fascists. It has been too long since we have destroyed any. Tomor- 
row can be a day of much valid action. Tomorrow can be a day of 
concrete acts. Tomorrow can be a day which is worth something. 
That tomorrow should come and that I should be there. 

Just then, as kneedeep in the gorse he climbed the steep slope that 
led to the Republican lines, a partridge flew up from under his feet, 
exploding in a whirr of wingbeats in the dark and he felt a sudden 
breath-stopping fright. It is the suddenness, he thought. How can 
they move their wings that fast.? She must be nesting now. I probably 
trod close to the eggs. If there were not this war I would tie a hand- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


367 

kerchief to the bush and come back in the daytime and search out the 
nest and I could take the eggs and put them under a setting hen and 
when they hatched we would have little partridges in the poultry 
yard and I would watch them grow and, when they were grown, I’d 
use them for callers. I wouldn’t blind them because they would be 
tame. Or do you suppose they would fly off.? Probably. Then I 
would have to blind them. 

But I don’t like to do that after I have raised them. I could clip 
the wings or tether them by one leg when I used them for calling. If 
there was no war I would go with Eladio to get crayfish from that 
stream back there by the fascist post. One time we got four dozen 
from that stream in a day. If we go to the Sierra de Credos after this 
of the bridge there are fine streams there for trout and for crayfish 
also. I hope we go to Credos, he thought. We could make a good 
life in Credos in the summer time and in the fall but it would 
be terribly cold in winter. But by winter maybe we will have won 
the war. 

If our father had not been a Republican both Eladio and I would 
be soldiers now with the fascists and if one were a soldier with them 
then there would be no problem. One would obey orders and one 
would live or die and in the end it would be however it would be. 
It was easier to live under a regime than to fight it. 

But this irregular fighting was a thing of much responsibility. 
There was much worry if you were one to worry. Eladio thinks 
more than I do. Also he worries. I believe truly in the cause and I 
do not worry. But it is a life of much responsibility. 

I think that we are born into a time of great difficulty, he thought. 
I think any other time was probably easier. One suffers little because 
all of us have been formed to resist suffering. They who suffer are 
unsuited to this climate. But it is a time of difficult decisions. The 
fascists attacked and made our decision for us. We fight to live. But 
I would like to have it so that I could tie a handkerchief to that bush 
back there and come in the daylight and take the eggs and put them 
under a hen and be able to see the chicks of the partridge in my own 
courtyard. I would like such small and regular things. 

But you have no house and no courtyard to your no-house, he 
thought. You have no family but a brother who goes to battle tomor- 
row and you own nothing but the wind and the sun and an empty 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


368 

belly. The wind is small, he thought, and there is no sun. You have 
four grenades in your pocket but they are only good to throw away. 
You have a carbine on your back but it is only good to give away 
bullets. You have a message to give away. And you’re full of crap 
that you can give to the earth, he grinned in the dark. You can 
anoint it also with urine. Everything you have is to give. Thou art a 
phenomenon of philosophy and an unfortunate man, he told himself 
and grinned again. 

But for all his noble thinking a little while before there was in 
him that reprieved feeling that had always come with the sound of 
rain in the village on the morning of the fiesta. Ahead of him now 
at the top of the ridge was the government position where he knew 
he would be challenged. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 


Robert Jordan lay in the robe beside the girl Maria who was still 
sleeping. He lay on his side turned away from the girl and he felt 
her long body against his back and the touch of it now was just an 
irony. You, you, he raged at himself. Yes, you. You told yourself the 
first time you saw him that when he would be friendly would be 
when the treachery would come. You damned fool. You utter blasted 
damned fool. Chuck all that. That’s not what you have to do now. 

What are the chances that he hid them or threw them away.? 
Not so good. Besides you’d never find them in the dark. He would 
have kept them. He took some dynamite, too. Oh, the dirty, vile, 
treacherous sod. The dirty rotten crut. Why couldn’t he have just 
mucked off and not have taken the exploder and the detonators? 
Why was I such an utter goddamned fool as to leave them with that 
bloody woman? The smart, treacherous ugly bastard. The dirty 
cabron. 

Cut it out and take it easy, he told himself. You had to take 
chances and that was the best there was. You’re just mucked, he told 
himself. You’re mucked for good and higher than a kite. Keep 
your damned head and get the anger out and stop this cheap lament- 
ing like a damned wailing wall. It’s gone. God damn you, it’s gone. 
Oh damn the dirty swine to hell. You can muck your way out of it. 
You’ve got to, you know you’ve got to blow it if you have to stand 
there and— cut out that stufi, too. Why don’t you ask your grand- 
father ? 

Oh, muck my grandfather and muck this whole treacherous muck- 
faced mucking country and every mucking Spaniard in it on either 
side and to hell forever. Muck them to hell together. Largo, Prieto, 
Asensio, Miaja, Rojo, all of them. Muck every one of them to death 
to hell. Muck the whole treachery-ridden country. Muck their ego- 
tism and their selfishness and their selfishness and their egotism and 
their conceit and their treachery. Muck them to hell and always. 
Muck them before we die for them. Muck them after we die for 

369 


37® for whom the bell tolls 

them. Muck them to death and hell. God muck Pablo. Pablo is all 
of them. God pity the Spanish people. Any leader they have 'wUl 
muck them. One good man, Pablo Iglesias, in two thousand years 
and everybody else mucking them. How do we know how he 
would have stood up in this war ? I remember when I thought Largo 
was O.K. Durruti was good and his own people shot him there at 
the Puente de los Franceses. Shot him because he wanted them to at- 
tack. Shot him in the glorious discipline of indiscipline. The cowardly 
swine. Oh muck them all to hell and be damned. And that Pablo 
that just mucked off with my exploder and my box of detonators. 
Oh muck him to deepest hell. But no. He’s mucked us instead. They 
always muck you instead from Cortez, and Menendez de Avila down 
to Miaja. Look at what Miaja did to Kleber. The bald egodstical 
swine. The stupid egg-headed bastard. Muck all the insane, egotisti- 
cal, treacherous swine that have always governed Spain and ruled 
her armies. Muck everybody but the people and then be damned 
careful what they turn into when they have power. 

His rage began to thin as he exaggerated more and more and 
spread his scorn and contempt so widely and unjustly that he could 
no longer believe in it himself. If that were true what are you here 
for.? It’s not true and you know it. Look at all the good ones. Look 
at all the fine ones. He could not bear to be unjust. He hated in- 
justice as he hated cruelty and he lay in his rage that blinded his 
mind until gradually the anger died down and the red, black, blind- 
ing, killing anger was all gone and his mind now as quiet, empty- 
calm and sharp, cold-seeing as a man is after he has had sexual inter- 
course with a woman that he does not love. 

“And you, you poor rabbit,” he leaned over and said to Maria, 
who smiled in her sleep and moved close against him. “I would 
have struck thee there awhile back if thou had spoken. What an 
animal a man is in a rage.” 

He lay close to the girl now with his arms around her and his 
chin on her shoulder and lying there he figured out exacdy what he 
would have to do and how he would have to do it. 

And it isn’t so bad, he thought. It really isn’t so bad at all. I don’t 
know whether any one has ever done it before. But there wiU always 
be people who will do it from now on, given a similar jam. If we 
do it and if they hear about it. If they hear about it, yes. If they do 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


371 

not just wonder how it was we did it. We are too short of people 
but there is no sense to worry about that. I will do the bridge with 
what we have. God, I’m glad I got over being angry. It was like not 
being able to breathe in a stoim. That being angry is another damned 
luxury you can’t afford. 

“It’s all figured out, guapa” he said softly against Maria’s shoulder. 
“You haven’t been bothered by any of it. You have not known about 
it. We’ll be killed but we 11 blow the bridge. You have not had to 
worry about it. That isn’t much of a wedding present. But is not a 
good night’s sleep supposed to be priceless.? You had a good night’s 
sleep. See if you can wear that like a ring on your finger. Sleep, 
guapa. Sleep well, my beloved. I do not wake thee. That is all I can 
do for thee now.” 

He lay there holding her very lightly, feeling her breathe and feel* 
ing her heart beat, and keeping track of the time on his wrist watch. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 


Andres had challenged at the government position. That is, he had 
lain down where the ground fell sharply away below the triple belt 
of wire and shouted up at the rock and earth parapet. There was no 
continual defensive line and he could easily have passed this position 
in the dark and made his vvay farther into the government territory 
before running into some one who would challenge him. But it 
seemed safer and simpler to get it over here. 

“Salud!” he had shouted. “Salud, milicianos!" 

He heard a bolt snick as it was pulled back. Then, from farther 
down the parapet, a rifle fired. There was a crashing crack and a 
downward stab of yellow in the dark. Andres had flattened at the 
click, the top of his head hard against the ground. 

“Don’t shoot, comrades,” Andres shouted. “Don’t shoot! I want 
to come in.” 

“How many are you.?” some one called from behind the parapet 

“One. Me. Alone.” 

“Who are you.?” 

“Andres Lopez of Villaconejos. From the band of Pablo. With a 
message.” 

“Have you your rifle and equipment.?” 

“Yes, man.” 

“We can take in none without rifle and equipment,” the voice said. 
“Nor in larger groups than three.” 

“I am alone,” Andres shouted. “It is important. Let me come in.” 

He could hear them talking behind the parapet but not what 
they were saying. Then the voice shouted again, “How many are 
you.?” 

“One. Me. Alone. For the love of God.” 

They were talking behind the parapet again. Then the voice came, 
“Listen, fascist.” 

“I am not a fascist,” Andres shouted. “I am a guerrillero from the 
band of Pablo. I come with a message for the General Stafi.” 


372 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


373 


“He’s crazy,” he heard some one say. “Toss a bomb at him.” 

“Listen,” Andres said. “I am alone. I am completely by myself. I 
obscenity in the midst of the holy mysteries that I am alone. Let me 
come in.” 

“He speaks like a Christian,” he heard some one say and laugh. 

Then some one else said, “The best thing is to toss a bomb down 
on him.” 

“No,” Andres shouted. “That would be a great mistake. This is 
important. Let me come in.” 

It was for this reason that he had never enjoyed trips back and 
forth between the lines. Sometimes it was better than others. But it 
was never good. 

“You are alone?” the voice called down again. 

“Me cago en la leche,” Andres shouted. “How many times must I 
tell thee? I AM ALONE.” 

“Then if you should be alone stand up and hold thy rifle over thy 
head.” 

Andres stood up and put the carbine above his head, holding it 
in both hands. 

“Now come through the wire. We have thee covered with the 
mdquina,” the voice called. 

Andres was in the first zigzag belt of wire. “I need my hands to 
get through the wire,” he shouted. 

“Keep them up,” the voice commanded. 

“I am held fast by the wire,” Andres called. 

“It would have been simpler to have thrown a bomb at him,” a 
voice said. 

“Let him sling his rifle,” another voice said. “He cannot come 
through there with his hands above his head. Use a little reason.” 

“All these fascists are the same,” the other voice said. “They de- 
mand one condition after another.” 

“Listen,” Andres shouted. “I am no fascist but a guerrillero from 
the band of Pablo. We’ve killed more fascists than the typhus.” 

“I have never heard of the band of Pablo,” the man who was 
evidently in command of the post said. “Neither of Peter nor of Paul 
nor of any of the other saints nor apostles. Nor of their bands. Sling 
thy rifle over thy shoulder and use thy hands to come through the 
wire.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


374 

“Before we loose the mdquina on thee,” another shouted. 

“Que poco amables soisi” Andres said. “You’re not very amiable.” 

He was working his way through the wire. 

"Amables" some one shouted at him. “We are in a war, man.” 

“It begins to appear so,” Andres said. 

“What’s he say.?” 

Andres heard a bolt click again. 

“Nothing,” he shouted. “I say nothing. Do not shoot until I get 
through this fornicating wire.” 

“Don’t speak badly of our wire,” some one shouted. “Or we’U 
toss a bomb on you.” 

"Quiero dear, que buena alambrada" Andres shouted. “What 
beautiful wire. God in a latrine. What lovely wire. Soon I will be 
with thee, brothers.” 

“Throw a bomb at him,” he heard the one voice say. “I tell you 
that’s the soundest way to deal with the whole thing.” 

“Brothers,” Andres said. He was wet through with sweat and he 
knew the bomb advocate was perfectly capable of tossing a grenade 
at any moment. “I have no importance.” 

“I believe it,” the bomb man said. 

“You are right,” Andres said. He was working carefully through 
the third belt of wire and he was very close to the parapet. “I have 
no importance of any kind. But the affair is serious. Muy, muy 
serio.” 

“There is no more serious thing than Hberty,” the bomb man 
shouted. “Thou thinkest there is anything more serious than liberty.?” 
he asked challengingly. 

“No, man,” Andres said, reUeved. He knew now he was up against 
the crazies; the ones with the black-and-red scarves. "Viva la 
Libertadl" 

"Viva la F. A. 7. Viva la C. N. T.," they shouted back at him from 
the parapet. "Viva el anarco-sindicalismo and liberty.” 

"Viva nosotros,” Andres shouted. “Long life to us.” 

“He is a coreligionary of ours,” the bomb man said. “And I might 
have killed him with this.” 

He looked at the grenade in his hand and was deeply moved as 
Andres climbed over the parapet. Putting his arms around him, the 
grenade still in one hand, so that it rested against Andres’s shoulder 
blade as he embraced him, the bomb man kissed him on both cheeks. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 375 

“I am content that nothing happened to thee, brother,” he said. “I 
am very content.” 

“Where is thy officer.?” Andres asked. 

“I command here,” a man said. “Let me see thy papers.” 

He took them into a dugout and looked at them with the light 
of a candle. There was the little square of folded silk with the colors 
of the Republic and the seal of the S. I. M. in the center. There was 
the Salvoconducto or safe-conduct pass giving his name, age, height, 
birthplace and mission that Robert Jordan had written out on a 
sheet from his notebook and sealed with the S. I. M. rubber stamp 
and there were the four folded sheets of the dispatch to Golz which 
were tied around with a cord and sealed with wax and the impres- 
sion of the metal S. I. M. seal that was set in the top end of the 
wooden handle of the rubber stamp. 

“This I have seen,” the man in command of the post said and 
handed back the piece of silk. “This you all have, I know. But its 
possession proves nothing without this.” He lifted the Salvoconducto 
and read it through again. “Where were you born?” 

“Villaconejos,” Andres said. 

“And what do they raise there?” 

“Melons,” Andres said. “As all the world knows.” 

“Who do you know there?” 

“Why? Are you from there?” 

“Nay. But I have been there. I am from Aranjuez.” 

“Ask me about any one.” 

“Describe Jose Rincon.” 

“Who keeps the bodega?” 

“Naturally.” 

“With a shaved head and a big belly and a cast in one eye.” 

“Then this is valid,” the man said and handed him back the paper. 
“But what do you do on their side?” 

“Our father had installed himself at Villacastin before the move- 
ment,” Andres said. “Down there beyond the mountains on the plain. 
It was there we were surprised by the movement. Since the move- 
ment I have fought with the band of Pablo. But I am in a great 
hurry, man, to take that dispatch.” 

“How goes it in the country of the fascists?” the man command- 
ing asked. He was in no hurry. 

“Today we had much tomate,” Andres said proudly. “Today there 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 



was plenty of dust on the road all day. Today they wiped out the band 
of Sordo.” 

“And who is Sordo?” the other asked deprecatingly. 

“The leader of one of the best bands in the mountains.” 

“All of you should come in to the Republic and join the army,” 
the officer said. “There is too much of this silly guerilla nonsense 
going on. All of you should come in and submit to our Libertarian 
discipline. Then when we wished to send out guerillas we would 
send them out as they are needed.” 

Andres was a man endowed with almost supreme patience. He 
had taken the coming in through the wire calmly. None of this ex- 
amination had flustered him. He found it perfectly normal that this 
man should have no understanding of them nor of what they were 
doing and that he should talk idiocy was to be expected. That it 
should all go slowly should be expected too; but now he wished to go. 

“Listen, Compadre,” he said. “It is very possible that you are right. 
But I have orders to deliver that dispatch to the General command- 
ing the 35th Division, which makes an attack at daylight in these 
hills and it is already late at night and I must go.” 

“What attack? What do you know of an attack?” 

“Nay. I know nothing. But I must go now to Navacerrada and 
go on from there. Wilt thou send me to thy commander who will 
give me transport to go on from there? Send one with me now to 
respond to him that there be no delay.” 

“I distrust all of this greatly,” he said. “It might have been better 
to have shot thee as thou approached the wire.” 

“You have seen my papers, Comrade, and I have explained my 
mission,” Andres told him patiently. 

“Papers can be forged,” the officer said. “Any fascist could invent 
such a mission. I will go with thee myself to the Commander.” 

“Good,” Andres said. “That you should come. But that we should 
go quickly.” 

“Thou, Sanchez. Thou commandest in my place,” the officer said. 
“Thou knowest thy duties as well as I do. I take this so-called Com- 
rade to the Commander.” 

They started down the shallow trench behind the crest of the hill 
and in the dark Andres smelt the foulness the defenders of the hill 
crest had made aU through the bracken on that slope. He did not 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


377 

like these people who were like dangerous children; dirty, foul, un- 
disciplined, kind, loving, silly and ignorant but always dangerous 
because they were armed. He, Andres, was without politics except 
that he was for the Republic. He had heard these people talk many 
times and he thought what they said was often beautiful and fine 
to hear but he did not like them. It is not liberty not to bury the 
mess one makes, he thought. No animal has more liberty than the 
cat; but it buries the mess it makes. The cat is the best anarchist. 
Until they learn that from the cat I cannot respect them. 

Ahead of him the officer stopped suddenly. 

“You have your carabine still,” he said. 

“Yes,” Andres said. “Why not.?” 

“Give it to me,” the officer said. “You could shoot me in the back 
with it.” 

“Why.?” Andres asked him. “Why would I shoot thee in the 
back.?” 

“One never knows,” the officer said. “I trust no one. Give me the 
carbine.” 

Andres unslung it and handed it to him. 

“If it pleases thee to carry it,” he said. 

“It is better,” the officer said. “We are safer that way.” 

They went on down the hill in the dark. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 


Now Robert Jordan lay with the girl and he watched time passing 
on his wrist. It went slowly, almost imperceptibly, for it was a small 
watch and he could not see the second hand. But as he watched the 
minute hand he found he could almost check its motion with his 
concentration. The girl’s head was under his chin and when he 
moved his head to look at the watch he felt the cropped head against 
his cheek, and it was as soft but as alive and silkily rolling as when a 
marten’s fur rises under the caress of your hand when you spread 
the trap jaws open and lift the marten clear and, holding it, stroke 
the fur smooth. His throat swelled when his cheek moved against 
Maria’s hair and there was a hollow aching from his throat all 
through him as he held his arms around her; his head dropped, his 
eyes close to the watch where the lance-pointed, luminous splinter 
moved slowly up the left face of the dial. He could see its move- 
ment clearly and steadily now and he held Maria close now to slow 
it. He did not want to wake her but he could not leave her alone 
now in this last time and he put his lips behind her ear and moved 
them up along her neck, feeling the smooth skin and the soft touch 
of her hair on them. He could see the hand moving on the watch 
and he held her tighter and ran the tip of his tongue along her 
cheek and onto the lobe of her ear and along the lovely convolu- 
tions to the sweet, firm rim at the top, and his tongue was trembling. 
He felt the trembling run through all of the hollow aching and he 
saw the hand of the watch now mounting in sharp angle toward 
the top where the hour was. Now while she still slept he turned her 
head and put his lips to hers. They lay there, just touching lighdy 
against the sleep-firm mouth and he swung them softly across it, 
feeling them brush lightly. He turned himself toward her and he 
felt her shiver along the long, light lovely body and then she sighed, 
sleeping, and then she, still sleeping, held him too and then, un- 
sleeping, her lips were against his firm and hard and pressing and 
he said, “But the pain.” 


378 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


379 


And she said, “Nay, there is no pain.” 

“Rabbit.” 

“Nay, speak not.” 

“My rabbit.” 

“Speak not. Speak not.” 

Then they were together so that as the hand on the watch moved, 
unseen now, they knew that nothing could ever happen to the one 
that did not happen to the other, that no other thing could happen 
more than this; that this was all and always; this was what had 
been and now and whatever was to come. This, that they were not 
to have, they were having. They were having now and before and 
always and now and now and now. Oh, now, now, now, the only 
now, and above all now, and there is no other now but thou now 
and now is thy prophet. Now and forever now. Come now, now, 
for there is no now but now. Yes, now. Now, please now, only now, 
not anything else only this now, and where are you and where am 
I and where is the other one, and not why, not ever why, only this 
now; and on and always please then always now, always now, for 
now always one now; one only one, there is no other one but one 
now, one, going now, rising now, sailing now, leaving now, wheel- 
ing now, soaring now, away now, all the way now, all of all the 
way now; one and one is one, is one, is one, is one, is still one, is 
still one, is one descendingly, is one softly, is one longingly, is one 
kindly, is one happily, is one in goodness, is one to cherish, is one 
now on earth with elbows against the cut and slept-on branches of 
the pine tree with the smell of the pine boughs and the night; to 
earth conclusively now, and with the morning of the day to come. 
Then he said, for the other was only in his head and he had said 
nothing, “Oh, Maria, I love thee and I thank thee for this.” 

Maria said, “Do not speak. It is better if we do not speak.” 

“I must tell thee for it is a great thing.” 

“Nay.” 

“Rabbit ” 

But she held him tight and turned her head away and he asked 
softly, “Is it pain, rabbit.?” 

“Nay,” she said. “It is that I am thankful too to have been another 
time in la gloria" 

Then afterwards they lay quiet, side by side, all length of ankle, 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


380 

thigh, hip and shoulder touching, Robert Jordan now with the watch 
where he could see it again and Maria said, “We have had much 
good fortune.” 

“Yes,” he said, “we are people of much luck.” 

• “There is not time to sleep.?” 

“No,” he said, “it starts soon now.” 

“Then if we must rise let us go to get something to eat.” 

“All right.” 

“Thou. Thou art not worried about anything.?” 

“No.” 

“Truly.?” 

“No. Not now.” 

“But thou hast worried before.?” 

“For a while.” 

“Is it aught I can help?” 

“Nay,” he said. “You have helped enough.” 

“That? That was for me.” 

“That was for us both,” he said. “No one is there alone. Come, 
rabbit, let us dress.” 

But his mind, that was his best companion, was thinking La 
Gloria. She said La Gloria. It has nothing to do with glory nor 
La Gloire that the French write and speak about. It is the thing that 
is in the Cante Hondo and in the Saetas. It is in Greco and in San 
Juan de la Cruz, of course, and in the others. I am no mystic, but to 
deny it is as ignorant as though you denied the telephone or that the 
earth revolves around the sun or that there are other planets than 
this. 

How little we know of what there is to know. I wish that I were 
going to live a long time instead of going to die today because I 
have learned much about life in these four days; more, I think, than 
in all the other time. I’d like to be an old man and to really know. 
I wonder if you keep on learning or if there is only a certain amount 
each man can understand. I thought I knew about so many things 
that I know nothing of. I wish there was more time. 

“You taught me a lot, guapa,” he said in English. 

“What did you say.?” 

“I have learned much from thee.” 

“Que va,” she said, “it is thou who art educated.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


381 

Educated, he thought. I have the very smallest heginnings of an 
education. The very small beginnings. If I die on this day it is a 
waste because I know a few things now. I wonder if you only learn 
them now because you are oversensitized because of the shortness 
of the time.? There is no such thing as a shortness of time, though. 
You should have sense enough to know that too. I have been all my 
life in these hills since I have been here. Anselmo is my oldest friend. 
I know him better than I know Charles, than I know Chub, than 
I know Guy, than I know Mike, and I know them well. Agustin, 
with his vile mouth, is my brother, and I never had a brother. Maria 
is my true love and my wife. I never had a true love. I never had 
a wife. She is also my sister, and I never had a sister, and my daugh- 
ter, and I never will have a daughter. I hate to leave a thing that 
is so good. He finished tying his rope-soled shoes. 

“I find life very interesting,” he said to Maria. She was sitting be- 
side him on the robe, her hands clasped around her ankles. Some 
one moved the blanket aside from the entrance to the cave and they 
both saw the light. It was night still and here was no promise of 
morning except that as he looked up through the pines he saw how 
low the stars had swung. The morning would be coming fast now 
in this month. 

“Roberto,” Maria said. 

“Yes, giiapa.” 

“In this of today we will be together, will we not.?” 

“After the start, yes.” 

“Not at the start?” 

“No. Thou wilt be with the horses.” 

“I cannot be with thee.?” 

“No. I have work that only I can do and I would worry about 
thee.” 

“But you will come fast when it is done?” 

“Very fast,” he said and grinned in the dark. “Come, guapa, let 
us go and eat.” 

“And thy robe.?” 

“Roll it up, if it pleases thee.” 

“It pleases me,” she said. 

“I will help thee.” 

“Nay. Let me do it alone.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


382 

She knelt to spread and roll the robe, then changed her mind and 
stood up and shook it so it flapped. Then she knelt down again to 
straighten it and roll it. Robert Jordan picked up the two packs, 
holding them carefully so that nothing would spill from the slits in 
them, and walked over through the pines to the cavemouth where 
the smoky blanket hung. It was ten minutes to three by his watch 
when he pushed the blanket aside with his elbow and went into 
the cave. 


« 


CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT 


They were in the cave and the men were standing before the fire 
Maria was fanning. Pilar had coffee ready in a pot. She had not 
gone back to bed at all since she had roused Robert Jordan and now 
she was sitting on a stool in the smoky cave sewing the rip in one 
of Jordan’s packs. The other pack was already sewed. The firelight 
lit up her face. 

“Take more of the stew,” she said to Fernando. “What does it 
matter if thy belly should be full.? There is no doctor to operate if 
you take a goring.” 

“Don’t speak that way, woman,” Agustm said. “Thou hast the 
tongue of the great whore.” 

He was leaning on the automatic rifle, its legs folded close against 
the fretted barrel, his pockets were full of grenades, a sack of pans 
hung from one shoulder, and a full bandolier of ammunition hung 
over the other shoulder. He was smoking a cigarette and he held a 
bowl of coffee in one hand and blew smoke onto its surface as he 
raised it to his lips. 

“Thou art a walking hardware store,” Pilar said to him. “Thou 
canst not walk a hundred yards with all that.” 

“Que va, woman,” Agustm said. “It is all downhill.” 

“There is the climb to the post,” Fernando said. “Before the down- 
ward slope commences.” 

“I will climb it like a goat,” Agustm said. 

“And thy brother.?” he asked Eladio. “Thy famous brother has 
mucked off.?” 

Eladio was standing against the wall. 

“Shut up,” he said. 

He was nervous and he knew they all knew it. He was always 
nervous and irritable before action. He moved from the wall to the 
table and began filling his pockets with grenades from one of the 
raw-hide-covered panniers that leaned, open, against the table leg. 

Robert Jordan squatted by the pannier beside him. He reached into 
the pannier and picked out four grenades. Three were the oval Mill 

383 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


384 

bomb type, serrated, heavy iron with a spring lever held down in 
position by a cotter pin with pulling rig attached. 

“Where did these come from.?” he asked Eladio. 

“Those.? Those are from the Republic. The old man brought 
them.” 

“How are they.?” 

“V alen mas que pesan,” Eladio said. “They are worth a fortune 
apiece.” 

“I brought those,” Anselmo said. “Sixty in one pack. Ninety 
pounds, Ingles.” 

“Have you used those.?” Robert Jordan asked Pilar. 

“Que va have we used them.?” the woman said. “It was with 
those Pablo slew the post at Otero.” 

When she mentioned Pablo, Agustm started cursing. Robert Jor- 
dan saw the look on Pilar’s face in the fireUght. 

“Leave it,” she said to Agustin sharply. “It does no good to talk.” 

“Have they always exploded.?” Robert Jordan held the gray-painted 
grenade in his hand, trying the bend of the cotter pin with his thumb- 
nail. 

“Always,” Eladio said. “There was not a dud in any of that lot 
we used.” 

“And how quickly.?” 

“In the distance one can throw it. Quickly. Quickly enough.” 

“And these.?” 

He held up a soup-tin shaped bomh, with a tape wrapping around 
a wire loop. 

“They are a garbage,” Eladio told him. “They blow. Yes. But it 
is all flash and no fragments.” 

“But do they always blow.?” 

"Que va, always,” Pilar said. “There is no always either with our 
munitions or theirs.” 

“But you said the other always blew.” 

“Not me,” Pilar told him. “You asked another, not me. I have seen 
no always in any of that stuff.” 

“They all blew,” Eladio insisted. “Speak the truth, woman.” 

“How do vou know they all blew.?” Pilar asked him. “It was Pablo 
who threw them You killed no one at Otero.” 

“That son of the great whore,” Agustm began. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


385 

“Leave it alone,” Pilar said sharply. Then she went on, “They 
are all much the same, Ingles. But the corrugated ones are more 
simple.” 

I’d better use one of each on each set, Robert Jordan thought. But 
the serrated type will lash easier and more securely. 

“Are you going to be throwing bombs, Ingles?’’ Agustin asked, 

“Why not.?” Robert Jordan said. 

But crouched there, sorting out the grenades, what he was think- 
ing was: it is impossible. How I could have deceived myself about 
it I do not know. We were as sunk when they attacked Sordo as 
Sordo was sunk when the snow stopped. It is that you can’t accept it. 
You have to go on and make a plan that you know is impossible to 
carry out. You made it and now you know it is no good. It’s no 
good, now, in the morning. You can take either of the posts abso- 
lutely O.K. with what you’ve got here. But you can’t take them 
both. You can’t be sure of it, I mean. Don’t deceive yourself. Not 
when the daylight comes. 

Trying to take them both will never work. Pablo knew that all 
the time. I suppose he always intended to muck off but he knew we 
were cooked when Sordo was attacked. You can’t base an operation 
on the presumption that miracles are going to happen. You will kill 
them all off and not even get your bridge blown if you have nothing 
better than what you have now. You will kill off Pilar, Anselmo, 
Agustin, Primitivo, this jumpy Eladio, the worthless gypsy and 
old Fernando, and you won’t get your bridge blown. Do you suj>- 
pose there will be a miracle and Golz will get the message from 
Andres and stop it? If there isn’t, you are going to kill them all off 
with those orders. Maria too. You’ll kill her too with those orders. 
Can’t you even get her out of it? God damn Pablo to hell, he 
thought. 

No. Don’t get angry. Getting angry is as bad as getting scared. 
But instead of sleeping with your girl you should have ridden all 
night through these hills with the woman to try to dig up enough 
people to make it work. Yes, he thought. And if anything happened 
to me so I was not here to blow it. Yes. That. That’s why you weren’t 
out. And you couldn’t send anybody out because you couldn’t run 
a chance of losing them and being short one more. You had to keep 
what you had and make a plan to do it with them. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


386 

But your plan stinks. It stinks, I tell you. It was a night plan and 
it’s morning now. Night plans aren’t any good in the morning. The 
way you think at night is no good in the morning. So now you 
know it is no good. 

What if John Mosby did get away with things as impossible as 
this? Sure he did. Much more diflScult. And remember, do not un- 
dervaluate the element of surprise. Remember that. Remember it 
isn’t goofy if you can make it stick. But that is not the way you are 
supposed to make it. You should make it not only possible but sure. 
But look at how it all has gone. Well, it was wrong in the first 
place and such things accentuate disaster as a snowball rolls up wet 
snow. 

He looked up from where he was squatted by the table and saw 
Maria and she smiled at him. He grinned back with the front of his 
face and selected four more grenades and put them in his pockets. 
I could unscrew the detonators and just use them, he thought. But 
I don’t think the fragmentation will have any bad effect. It will 
come instantaneously with the explosion of the charge and it won’t 
disperse it. At least, I don’t think it will. I’m sure it won’t. Have a 
little confidence, he told himself. And you, last night, thinking about 
how you and your grandfather were so terrific and your father was 
a coward. Show yourself a little confidence now. 

He grinned at Maria again but the grin was still no deeper than 
the skin that felt tight over his cheekbones and his mouth. 

She thinks you’re wonderful, he thought. I think you stink. And 
the gloria and all that nonsense that you had. You had wonderful 
ideas, didn’t you? You had this world all taped, didn’t you? The 
hell with all of that. 

Take it easy, he told himself. Don’t get into a rage. That’s just a 
way out too. There are always ways out. You’ve got to bite on the 
nail now. There isn’t any need to deny everything there’s been just 
because you are going to lose it. Don’t be like some damned snake 
with a broken back biting at itself; and your back isn’t broken either, 
you hound. Wait until you’re hurt before you start to cry. Wait until 
the fight before you get angry. There’s lots of time for it in a fight. 
It will be some use to you in a fight. 

Pilar came over to him with the bag. 

“It is strong now,” she said. “Those grenades are very good, Ingles. 
You can have confidence in them.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


387 


“How do you feel, woman?” 

She looked at him and shook her head and smiled. He wondered 
how far into her face the smile went. It looked deep enough. 

“Good,” she said. “Dentro de la gravedad.” 

Then she said, squatting by him, “How does it seem to thee now 
that it is really starting?” 

“That we are few,” Robert Jordan said to her quickly. 

“To me, too,” she said. “Very few.” 

Then she said still to him alone, “The Maria can hold the horses 
by herself. I am not needed for that. We will hobble them. They 
are cavalry horses and the firing will not panic them. I will go to 
the lower post and do that which was the duty of Pablo. In this way 
we are one more.” 

“Good,” he said. “I thought you might wish to.” 

“Nay, Ingles,” Pilar said looking at him closely. “Do not be wor- 
ried. All will be well. Remember they expect no such thing to come 
to them.” 

“Yes,” Robert Jordan said. 

“One other thing, Ingles,” Pilar said as softly as her harsh whisper 
could be soft. “In that thing of the hand ” 

“What thing of the hand?” he said angrily. 

“Nay, listen. Do not be angry, little boy. In regard to that thing 
of the hand. That is all gypsy nonsense that I make to give myself 
an importance. There is no such thing.” 

“Leave it alone,” he said coldly. 

“Nay,” she said harshly and lovingly. “It is just a lying nonsense 
that I make. I would not have thee worry in the day of battle.” 

“I am not worried,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Yes, Ingles,” she said. “Thou art very worried, for good cause. 
But all will be well, Ingles. It is for this that we are born.” 

“I don’t need a political commissar,” Robert Jordan told her. 

She smiled at him again, smiling fairly and truly with the harsh 
lips and the wide mouth, and said, “I care for thee very much, 
Ingles.” 

“I don’t want that now,” he said. "Ni tu, ni Dios.” 

“Yes,” Pilar said in that husky whisper. “I know. I only wished 
to tell thee. And do not worry. We will do all very well.” 

“Why not?” Robert Jordan said and the very thinnest edge of the 
skin in front of his face smiled. “Of course we will. All will be well.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


388 

“When do we go?” Pilar asked. 

Robert Jordan looked at his watch. 

“Any time,” he said. , 

He handed one of the packs to Anselmo. 

“How are you doing, old one?” he asked. 

The old man was finishing whittling the last of a pile of wedges 
he had copied from a model Robert Jordan had given him. These 
were extra wedges in case they should be needed. 

“Well,” the old man said and nodded. “So far, very well.” He 
held his hand out. “Look,” he said and smiled. His hands were per- 
fectly steady. 

“Bueno, y que?” Robert Jordan said to him. “I can always keep 
the whole hand steady. Point with one finger.” 

Anselmo pointed. The finger was trembling. He looked at Robert 
Jordan and shook his head. 

“Mine too,” Robert Jordan showed him. “Always. That is normal.” 

“Not for me,” Fernando said. He put his right forefinger out to 
show them. Then the left forefinger. 

“Canst thou spit?” Agustin asked him and winked at Robert 
Jordan. 

Fernando hawked and spat proudly onto the floor of the cave, 
then rubbed it in the dirt with his foot. 

“You filthy mule,” Pilar said to him. “Spit in the fixe if thou must 
vaunt thy courage.” 

“I would not have spat on the floor. Pilar, if we were not leaving 
this place,” Fernando said primly. 

“Be careful where you spit today,” Pilar told him. “It may be some 
place you will not be leaving.” 

“That one speaks like a black cat,” Agustin said. He had the 
nervous necessity to joke that is another form of what they aU 
felt. 

“I joke,” said Pilar. 

“Me too,” said Agustin. “But me cago en la leche, but I will be 
content when it starts.” 

“Where is the gypsy?” Robert Jordan asked Eladio. 

“With the horses,” Eladio said. “You can see him from the cave 
mouth.” 

“How is he?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 



Eladio grinned, “With much fear,” he said. It reassured him to 
speak of the fear of another. 

“Listen, Ingles—” Pilar began. Robert Jordan looked toward her 
and as he did he saw her mouth open and the unbelieving look come 
on her face and he swung toward the cave mouth reaching for his 
pistol. There, holding the blanket aside with one hand, the short 
automatic rifle muzzle with its flash-cone jutting up above his shoul- 
der, was Pablo standing short, wide, bristly-faced, his small red- 
rimmed eyes looking toward no one in particular. 

“Thou—” Pilar said to him unbelieving. “Thou.” 

“Me,” said Pablo evenly. He came into the cave. 

. "Hola, Ingles,” he said. “I have five from the bands of Elias and 
Alejandro above with their horses.” 

“And the exploder and the detonators?” Robert Jordan said. “And 
the other material?” 

“I threw them down the gorge into the river,” Pablo said still 
looking at no one. “But I have thought of a way to detonate using 
a grenade.” 

“So have I,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Have you a drink of anything?” Pablo asked wearily. 

Robert Jordan handed him the flask and he swallowed fast, then 
wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 

“What passes with you?” Pilar asked. 

“Nada,” Pablo said, wiping his mouth again. “Nothing. I have 
come back.” 

“But what?” 

“Nothing. I had a moment of weakness. I went away but I am 
come back.” 

He turned to Robert Jordan. “En el fondo no soy cobarde,” he 
said. “At bottom I am not a coward.” 

But you are very many other things, Robert Jordan thought. 
Damned if you’re not. But I’m glad to see you, you son of a bitch. 

“Five was all I could get from Elias and Alejandro,” Pablo said. 
“I have ridden since I left here. Nine of you could never have done 
it. Never. I knew that last n’ght when the Ingles explained it. Never. 
There are seven men and a corporal at the lower post. Suppose there 
is an alarm or that they fight?” 

He looked at Robert Jordan now. “When I left I thought you 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


390 

would know that it was impossible and would give it up. Then after 
I had thrown away thy material I saw it in another manner.” 

“I am glad to see thee,” Robert Jordan said. He walked over to 
him. “We are all right with the grenades. That will work. The 
other does not matter now.” 

“Nay,” Pablo said. “I do nothing for thee. Thou art a thing of 
bad omen. All of this comes from thee. Sordo also. But after I had 
thrown away thy material I found myself too lonely.” 

“Thy mother — ” Pilar said. 

“So I rode for the others to make it possible for it to be successful. 
I have brought the best that I could get. I have left them at the top 
so I could speak to you, first. They think I am the leader.” 

“Thou art,” Pilar said. “If thee wishes.” Pablo looked at her and 
said nothing. Then he said simply and quietly, “I have thought much 
since the thing of Sordo. I believe if we must finish we must finish 
together. But thou, Ingles. I hate thee for bringing this to us.” 

“But Pablo—” Fernando, his pockets full of grenades, a bandolier 
of cartridges over his shoulder, he still wiping in his pan of stew 
with a piece of bread, began. “Do you not believe the operation can 
be successful.? Night before last you said you were convinced it 
would be.” 

“Give him some more stew,” Pilar said viciously to Maria. Then 
to Pablo, her eyes softening, “So you have come back, eh.?” 

“Yes, woman,” Pablo said. 

“Well, thou art welcome,” Pilar said to him. “I did not think thou 
couldst be the ruin thou appeared to be.” 

“Having done such a thing diere is a loneliness that cannot be 
borne,” Pablo said to her quietly. 

“That cannot be borne,” she mocked him. “That caimot be borne 
by thee for fifteen minutes.” 

“Do not mock me, woman. I have come back.” 

“And thou art welcome,” she said. “Didst not hear me the first 
time .? Drink thy coffee and let us go. So much theatre tires me.” 

“Is that coffee.?” Pablo asked. 

“Certainly,” Fernando said. 

“Give me some, Maria,” Pablo said. “How art thou.?” He did not 
look at her. 

“Well,” Maria told him and brought him a bowl of coffee. “Do 
you want stew.?” Pablo shook his head. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


391 

“No me gusta estar solo,” Pablo went on explaining to Pilar as 
though the others were not there. “I do not like to be alone. Sabes? 
Yesterday all day alone working for the good of aU I was not lonely. 
But last night. Hombrel Que mol lo pase!” 

“Thy predecessor the famous Judas Iscariot hanged himself,” Pilar 
said. 

“Don’t talk to me that way, woman,” Pablo said. “Have you not 
seen? I am back. Don’t talk of Judas nor nothing of that. I am back.” 

“How are these people thee brought?” Pilar asked him. “Hast 
brought anything worth bringing?” 

“Son buenos,” Pablo said. He took a chance and looked at Pilar 
squarely, then looked away. 

“Buenos y bobos. Good ones and stupids. Ready to die and all. 
A tu gusto. According to thy taste. The way you like them.” 

Pablo looked Pilar in the eyes again and this time he did not look 
away. He kept on looking at her squarely with his small, red-rimmed 
pig eyes. 

“Thou,” she said and her husky voice was fond again. “Thou. I 
suppose if a man has something once, always something of it re- 
mains.” 

“Listo,” Pablo said, looking at her squarely and flatly now. “I 
am ready for what the day brings.” 

“I believe thou art back,” Pilar said to him. “I believe it. But, 
hombre, thou wert a long way gone.” 

“Lend me another swallow from thy bottle,” Pablo said to Robert 
Jordan. “And then let us be going.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE 


In the dark they came up the hill through the timber to the narrow 
pass at the top. They were aU loaded heavily and they climbed 
slowly. The horses had loads too, packed over the saddles. 

“We can cut them loose if it is necessary,” Pilar had said. “But with 
that, if we can keep it, we can make another camp.” 

“And the rest of the ammunition?” Robert Jordan had asked as 
they lashed the packs. 

“In those saddle bags.” 

Robert Jordan felt the weight of his heavy pack, the dragging on 
his neck from the pull of his jacket with its pockets full of grenades, 
the weight of his pistol against his thigh, and the bulging of his 
trouser pockets where the clips for the submachine gun were. In 
his mouth was the taste of the coffee, in his right hand he carried 
the submachine gun and with his left hand he reached and pulled 
up the collar of his jacket to ease the pull of the pack straps. 

"Ingles,” Pablo said to him, walking close beside him in the dark. 

“What, man?” 

“These I have brought think this is to be successful because I have 
brought them,” Pablo said. “Do not say anything to disillusion 
them.” 

“Good,” Robert Jordan said. “But let us make it successful.” 

“They have five horses, sabes?” Pablo said cautiously. 

“Good,” said Robert Jordan. “We will keep all the horses to- 
gether.” 

“Good,” said Pablo, and nothing more. 

I didn’t think you had experienced any complete conversion on the 
road to Tarsus, old Pablo, Robert Jordan thought. No. Your coming 
back was miracle enough. I don’t think there will ever be any prob- 
lem about canonizing you. 

“With those five I will deal with the lower post as well as Sordo 
would have,” Pablo said. “I will cut the wire and fall back upon the 
bridge as we convened.” 


392 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 393 

We went over this all ten minutes ago, Robert Jordan thought. 
I wonder why this now 

“There is a possibility of making it to Credos,” Pablo said. “Truly, 
I have thought much of it.” 

I believe you’ve had another flash in the last few minutes, Robert 
Jordan said to himself. You have had another revelation. But you’re 
not going to convince me that I am invited. No, Pablo. Do not ask 
me to believe too much. 

Ever since Pablo had come into the cave and said he had five men 
Robert Jordan felt increasingly better. Seeing Pablo again had broken 
the pattern of tragedy into which the whole operation had seemed 
grooved ever since the snow, and since Pablo had been back he felt 
not that his luck had turned, since he did not believe in luck, but 
that the whole thing had turned for the better and that now it was 
possible. Instead of the surety of failure he felt confidence rising in 
him as a tire begins to fill with air from a slow pump. There was 
little difference at first, although there was a definite beginning, as 
when the pump starts and the rubber of the tube crawls a little, but 
it came now as steadily as a tide rising or the sap rising in a tree 
until he began to feel the first edge of that negation of apprehension 
that often turned into actual happiness before action. 

This was the greatest gift that he had, the talent that fitted him 
for war; that ability not to ignore but to despise whatever bad end- 
ing there could be. This quality was destroyed by too much responsi- 
bility for others or the necessity of undertaking something ill planned 
or badly conceived. For in such things the bad ending, failure, could 
not be ignored. It was not simply a possibility of harm to one’s self, 
which could be ignored. He knew he himself was nothing, and he 
knew death was nothing. He knew that truly, as truly as he knew 
anything. In the last few days he had learned that he himself, with 
another person, could be everything. But inside himself he knew that 
this was the exception. That we have had, he thought. In that I have 
been most fortunate. That was given to me, perhaps, because I never 
asked for it. That cannot be taken away nor lost. But that is over 
and done with now on this morning and what there is to do now 
is our work. 

And you, he said to himself, I am glad to see you getting a little 
something back that was badly missing for a time. But you were 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


394 

pretty bad back there. I was ashamed enough of you, there for a 
while. Only I was you. There wasn’t any me to judge you. We were 
all in bad shape. You and me and both of us. Come on now. Quit 
thinking like a schizophrenic. One at a time, now. You’re all right 
again now. But listen, you must not think of the girl all day ever. 
You can do nothing now to protect her except to keep her out of 
it, and that you are doing. There are evidently going to be plenty 
of horses if you can believe the signs. The best thing you can do 
for her is to do the job well and fast and get out, and thinking of 
her will only handicap you in this. So do not think of her ever. 

Having thought this out he waited until Maria came up walking 
with Pilar and Rafael and the horses. 

“Hi, guapa,” he said to her in the dark, “how are you?” 

“I am well, Roberto,” she said. 

“Don’t worry about anything,” he said to her and shifting the 
gun to his left hand he put a hand on her shoulder. 

“I do not,” she said. 

“It is all very well organized,” he told her. “Rafael will be with thee 
with the horses.” 

“I would rather be with thee.” 

“Nay. The horses is where thou art most useful.” 

“Good,” she said. “There I will be.” 

Just then one of the horses whinnied and from the open place 
below the opening through the rocks a horse answered, the neigh 
rising into a shrill sharply broken quaver. 

Robert Jordan saw the bulk of the new horses ahead in the dark. 
He pressed forward and came up to them with Pablo. The men 
were standing by their mounts. 

“Salud,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Salud” they answered in the dark. He could not see their faces. 

“This is the Ingles who comes with us,” Pablo said. “The dyna- 
miter.” 

No one said anything to that. Perhaps they nodded in the dark. 

“Let us get going, Pablo,” one man said. “Soon we will have the 
daylight on us.” 

“Did you bring any more grenades?” another asked. 

“Plenty,” said Pablo. “Supply yourselves when we leave the ani- 
mals.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 395 

“Then let us go,” another said. “We’ve been ^vaiting here half the 
night.” 

“Hola, Pilar,” another said as the woman came up. 

“Que me maten, if it is not Pepe,” Pilar said huskily. “How are 
you, shepherd?” 

“Good,” said the man. “Dentro de la gravedad.” 

“What are you riding?” Pilar asked him. 

“The gray of Pablo,” the man said. “It is much horse.” 

“Come on,” another man said. “Let us go. There is no good in 
gossiping here.” 

“How art thou, Elicio?” Pilar said to him as he mounted. 

“How would I be?” he said rudely. “Come on, woman, we have 
work to do.” 

Pablo mounted the big bay horse. 

“Keep thy mouths shut and follow me,” he said. “I will lead you 
to the place where we will leave the horses.” 


CHAPTER FORTY 


During the time that Robert Jordan had slept through, the time he 
had spent planning the destruction of the bridge and the time that 
he had been with Maria, Andres had made slow progress. Until 
he had reached the Republican lines he had travelled across country 
and through the fascist lines as fast as a countryman in good physi- 
cal condition who knew the country well could travel in the dark. 
But once inside the Republican lines it went very slowly. 

In theory he should only have had to show the safe-conduct given 
him by Robert Jordan stamped with the seal of the S. I. M. and the 
dispatch which bore the same seal and be passed along toward his 
destination with the greatest speed. But first he had encountered the 
company commander in the front line who had regarded the whole 
mission with owlishly grave suspicion. 

He had followed this company commander to battalion head- 
quarters where the battalion commander, who had been a barber 
before the movement, was filled with enthusiasm on hearing the 
account of his mission. This commander, who was named Gomez, 
cursed the company commander for his stupidity, patted Andr« 
on the back, gave him a drink of bad brandy and told him that he 
himself, the ex-barber, had always wanted to be a guerrillero. He had 
then roused his adjutant, turned over the battalion to him, and sent 
his orderly to wake up and bring his motorcyclist. Instead of send- 
ing Andres back to brigade headquarters with the motorcyclist, 
Gomez had decided to take him there himself in order to expedite 
things and, with Andres holding tight onto the seat ahead of him, 
they roared, bumping, down the shell-pocked mountain road be- 
tween the double row of big trees, the headlight of the motorcycle 
showing their whitewashed bases and the places on the trunks 
where the whitewash and the bark had been chipped and torn by 
shell fragments and bullets during the fighting along this road in 
the first summer of the movement. They turned into the little 
smashed-roofed mountain-resort town where brigade headquarters 
was and Gomez had braked the motorcycle Uke a dirt-track racer 

396 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


397 

and leaned it against the wall of the house where a sleepy sentry 
came to attention as Gomez pushed by him into the big room 
where the walls were covered with maps and a very sleepy officer 
with a green eyeshade sat at a desk with a reading lamp, two tele- 
phones and a copy of Mundo Obrero. 

This officer looked up at Gomez and said, “What doest thou 
here? Have you never heard of the telephone?” 

“I must see the Lieutenant-Colonel,” Gomez said. 

“He is asleep,” the officer said. “I could see the lights of that 
bicycle of thine for a mile coming down the road. Dost wish to 
bring on a shelling?” 

“Call the Lieutenant-Colonel,” Gomez said. “This is a matter of 
the utmost gravity.” 

“He is asleep, I tell thee,” the officer said. “What sort of a bandit 
is that with thee?” he nodded toward Andres. 

“He is a guerrillero from the other side of the lines with a dispatch 
of the utmost importance for the General Golz who commands the 
attack that is to be made at dawn beyond Navacerrada,” Gomez 
said excitedly and earnestly. “Rouse the Teniente-Coronel for the 
love of God.” 

The officer looked at him with his droopy eyes shaded by the 
green celluloid. 

“All of you are crazy,” he said. “I know of no General Golz nor 
of no attack. Take this sportsman and get back to your battalion.” 

“Rouse the Teniente-Coronel, I say,” Gomez said and Andres 
saw his mouth tightening. 

“Go obscenity yourself,” the officer said to him lazily and turned 
away. 

Gomez took his heavy 9 mm. Star pistol out of its holster and 
shoved it against the officer’s shoulder. 

“Rouse him, you fascist bastard,” he said. “Rouse him or I’ll 
kill you.” 

“Calm yourself,” the officer said. “All you barbers are emotional.” 

Andres saw Gomez’s face draw with hate in the light of the read- 
ing lamp. But all he said was, “Rouse him.” 

“Orderly,” the officer called in a contemptuous voice. 

A soldier came to the door and saluted and went out. 

“His fiancee is with him,” the officer said and went back to read- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


398 

ing the paper. “It is certain he will he delighted to see you.” 

“It is those like thee who obstruct all efiort to win this war,” 
Gomez said to the staff officer. 

The officer paid no attention to him. Then, as he read on, he 
remarked, as though to himself, “What a curious periodical this is!” 

“Why don’t you read El Debate then.? That is your paper.” 
Gomez said to him naming the leading Catholic-Conservative organ 
published in Madrid before the movement. 

“Don’t forget I am thy superior officer and that a report by me 
on thee carries weight,” the officer said without looking up. “I never 
read El Debate. Do not make false accusations.” 

“No. You read A. B. C.” Gomez said. “The army is still rotten 
with such as thee. With professionals such as thee. But it will not 
always be. We are caught between the ignorant and the cynical. But 
we will educate the one and eliminate the other.” 

“ ‘Purge’ is the word you want,” the officer said, still not looking 
up. “Here it reports the purging of more of thy famous Russians. 
They are purging more than the epsom salts in this epoch.” 

“By any name,” Gomez said passionately. “By any name so that 
such as thee are liquidated.” 

“Liquidated,” the officer said insolently as though speaking to 
himself. “Another new word that has little of Castilian in it.” 

“Shot, then,” Gomez said. “That is CastiUan. Canst understand 
it.?” 

“Yes, man, but do not talk so loudly. There are others beside the 
T eniente-Coronel asleep in this Brigade Staff and thy emotion bores 
me. It was for that reason that I always shaved myself. I never liked 
the conversation.” 

Gomez looked at Andres and shook his head. His e^^es were shin- 
ing with the moistness that rage and hatred can bring. But he 
shook his head and said nothing as he stored it aU away for some 
time in the future. He had stored much in the year and a half in 
which he had risen to the command of a battalion in the Sierra and 
now, as the Lieutenant-Colonel came into the room in his pajamas 
he drew himself stiff and saluted. 

The Lieutenant-Colonel Miranda, who was a short, gray-faced 
man, who had been in the army all his life, who had lost the love 
of his wife in Madrid while he was losing his digestion in Mo- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


399 

rocco, and become a Republican when he found he could not divorce 
his wife (there was never any question of recovering his digestion), 
had entered the civil war as a Lieutenant-Colonel. He had only one 
ambition, to finish the war with the same rank. He had defended 
the Sierra well and he wanted to be left alone there to defend it 
whenever it was attacked. He felt much healthier in the war, prob- 
ably due to the forced curtailment of the number of meat courses, 
he had an enormous stock of sodium-bicarbonate, he had his whiskey 
in the evening, his twenty-three-year-old mistress was having a 
baby, as were nearly all the other girls who had started out as 
milicianas in the July of the year before, and now he came into the 
room, nodded in answer to Gomez’s salute and put out his hand. 

“What brings thee, Gomez.?” he asked and then, to the officer 
at the desk who was his chief of operation, “Give me a cigarette, 
please, Pepe.” 

Gomez showed him Andres’s papers and the dispatch. The Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel looked at the Salvoconducto quickly, looked at 
Andres, nodded and smiled, and then looked at the dispatch hun- 
grily. He felt of the seal, tested it with his forefinger, then handed 
both the safe-conduct and dispatch back to Andres. 

“Is the life very hard there in the hills?” he asked. 

“No, my Lieutenant-Colonel,” Andres said. 

“Did they tell thee where would be the closest point to find 
General Golz’s headquarters?” 

“Navacerrada, my Lieutenant-Colonel,” Andres said. “The Ingles 
said it would be somewhere close to Navacerrada behind the lines 
to the right of there.” 

“What Ingles?” the Lieutenant-Colonel asked quietly. 

“The Ingles who is with us as a dynamiter.” 

The Lieutenant-Colonel nodded. It was just another sudden un- 
explained rarity of this war. “The Ingles who is with us as a 
dynamiter.” 

“You had better take him, Gomez, on the motor,” the Lieutenant- 
Colonel said. “Write them a very strong Salvoconducto to the 
Estado Mayor of General Golz for me to sign,” he said to the officer 
in the green celluloid eyeshade. “Write it on the machine, Pepe. 
Here are the details,” he motioned for Andres to hand over his safe- 
conduct, “and put on two seals.” He turned to Gomez. “You will 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


400 

need something strong tonight. It is rightly so. People should be 
careful when an offensive is projected. I will give you something as 
strong as I can make it.” Then to Andres, very kindly, he said, 
“Dost wish anything.? To eat or to drink.?” 

“No, my Lieutenant-Colonel,” Andres said. “I am not hungry. 
They gave me cognac at the last place of command and more would 
make me seasick.” 

“Did you see any movement or activity opposite my front as you 
came through.?” the Lieutenant-Colonel asked Andres politely. 

“It was as usual, my Lieutenant-Colonel. Quiet. Quiet.” 

“Did I not meet thee in Cercedilla about three months back.?” the 
Lieutenant-Colonel asked. 

“Yes, my Lieutenant-Colonel.” 

“I thought so,” the Lieutenant-Colonel patted him on the shoul- 
der. “You were with the old man Anselmo. How is he.?” 

“He is well, my Lieutenant-Colonel,” Andres told him. 

“Good. It makes me happy,” the Lieutenant-Colonel said. The 
officer showed him what he had typed and he read it over and 
signed it. “You must go now quickly,” he said to Gomez and 
Andres. “Be careful with the motor,” he said to Gomez. “Use your 
lights. Nothing will happen from a single motor and you must be 
careful. My compliments to Comrade General Golz. We met after 
Peguerinos.” He shook hands with them both. “Button the papers 
inside thy shirt,” he said. “There is much wind on a motor.” 

After they went out he went to a cabinet, took out a glass and a 
bottle, and poured himself some whiskey and poured plain water 
into it from an earthenware crock that stood on the floor against 
the wall. Then holding the glass and sipping the whiskey very 
slowly he stood in front of the big map on the wall and studied the 
offensive possibilities in the country above Navacerrada. 

“I am glad it is Golz and not me,” he said finally to the officer 
who sat at the table. The officer did not answer and looking away 
from the map and at the officer the Lieutenant-Colonel saw he was 
asleep with his head on his arms. The Lieutenant-Colonel went over 
to the desk and pushed the two phones close together so that one 
touched the officer’s head on either side. Then he walked to the 
cupboard, poured himself another whiskey, put water in it, and went 
back to the map again. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 4OI 

Andres, holding tight onto the seat where Gomez was forking 
the motor, bent his head against the wind as the motorcycle moved, 
noisily exploding, into the light-split darkness of the country road 
that opened ahead sharp with the high black of the poplars beside 
it, dimmed and yellow-soft now as the road dipped into the fog 
along a stream bed, sharpening hard again as the road rose and, 
ahead of them at the crossroads, the headlight showed the gray 
bulk of the empty trucks coming down from the mountains. 


CHAPTER FORTY-ONE 


Pablo stopped and dismounted in the dark. Robert Jordan heard 
the creaking and the heavy breathing as they all dismounted and 
the clinking of a bridle as a horse tossed his head. He smelled the 
horses and the unwashed and sour slept-in-clothing smell of the 
new men and the wood-smoky sleep-stale smell of the others who 
had been in the cave. Pablo was standing close to him and he smelled 
the brassy, dead-wine smell that came from him like the taste of a 
copper coin in your mouth. He lit a cigarette, cupping his hand to 
hide the light, pulled deep on it, and heard Pablo say very sofdy, 
“Get the grenade sack. Pilar, while we hobble these.” 

“Agustin,” Robert Jordan said in a whisper, “you and Anselmo 
come now with me to the bridge. Have you the sack of pans for the 
maquina?’’ 

“Yes,” Agustm said. “Why not?” 

Robert Jordan went over to where Pilar was unpacking one of 
the horses with the help of Primitivo. 

“Listen, woman,” he said softly. 

“What now?” she whispered huskily, swinging a cinch hook 
clear from under the horse’s belly. 

“Thou understandest that there is to be no attack on the post 
until thou hearest the falling of the bombs?” 

“How many times dost thou have to tell me?” Pilar said. ‘You 
are getting like an old woman, Ingles.” 

“Only to check,” Robert Jordan said. “And after the destruction 
of the post you fall back onto the bridge and cover the road from 
above and my left flank.” 

“The first time thou outlined it I understood it as well as I will 
ever understand it,” Pilar whispered to him. “Get thee about thy 
business.” 

“That no one should make a move nor fire a shot nor throw a 


402 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 403 

bomb until the noise of the bombardment comes,” Robert Jordan 
said softly. 

“Do not molest me more,” Pilar whispered angrily. “I have un- 
derstood this since we were at Sordo’s.” 

Robert Jordan went to where Pablo was tying the horses. “I have 
only hobbled those which are liable to panic,” Pablo said. “These are 
tied so a pull of the rope will release them, see.?” 

“Good.” 

“I will tell the girl and the gypsy how to handle them,” Pablo 
said. His new men were standing in a group by themselves leaning 
on their carbines. 

“Dost understand all?” Robert Jordan asked. 

“Why not?” Pablo said. “Destroy the post. Cut the wire. Fall 
back on the bridge. Cover the bridge until thou blowest.” 

“And nothing to start until the commencement of the bombard- 
ment.” 

“Thus it is.” 

“Well then, much luck.” 

Pablo grunted. Then he said, “Thou wilt cover us well with 
the mdquina and with thy small mdquina when we come back, 
eh, Ingles?” 

“De la primera,” Robert Jordan said. “Of! the top of the basket.” 

“Then,” Pablo said. “Nothing more. But in that moment thou 
must be very careful, Ingles. It will not be simple to do that unless 
thou art very careful.” 

“I will handle the mdquina myself,” Robert Jordan said to him. 

“Hast thou much experience? For I am of no mind to be shot 
by Agustin with his belly full of good intentions.” 

“I have much experience. Truly. And if Agustm uses either 
mdquina I will see that he keeps it way above thee. Above, above 
and above.” 

“Then nothing more,” Pablo said. Then he said softly and 
confidentially, “There is still a lack of horses.” 

The son of a bitch, Robert Jordan thought. Or does he think 
I did not understand him the first time. 

“I go on foot,” he said. “The horses are thy affair.” 

‘TSTay, there will be a horse for thee, Ingles,” Pablo said softly. 
“There will be horses for all of us.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


404 

“That is thy problem,” Robert Jordan said. “Thou dost not 
have to count me. Hast enough rounds for thy new maquina?" 

“Yes,” Pablo said. “All that the cavalryman carried. 1 have fired 
only four to try it. I tried it yesterday in the high hills.” 

“We go now,” Robert Jordan said. “We must be there early 
and well hidden.” 

“We all go now,” Pablo said. “Suerte, Ingles.” 

I wonder what the bastard is planning now, Robert Jordan said. 
But I am pretty sure I know. Well, that is his, not mine. Thank 
God I do not know these new men. 

He put his hand out and said, “Suerte, Pablo,” and their two 
hands gripped in the dark. 

Robert Jordan, when he put his hand out, expected that it would 
be like grasping something reptilian or touching a leper. He did 
not know what Pablo’s hand would feel like. But in the dark Pablo’s 
hand gripped his hard and pressed it frankly and he returned the 
grip. Pablo had a good hand in the dark and feeling it gave Robert 
Jordan the strangest feeling he had felt that morning. We must be 
allies now, he thought. There was always much handshaking with 
allies. Not to mention decorations and kissing on both cheeks, he 
thought. Pm glad we do not have to do that. I suppose all allies are 
like this. They always hate each other au fond. But this Pablo is a 
strange man. 

“Suerte, Pablo,” he said and gripped the strange, firm, pur- 
poseful hand hard. “I will cover thee well. Do not worry.” 

“I am sorry for having taken thy material,” Pablo said. “It was 
an equivocation.” 

“But thou hast brought what we needed.” 

“I do not hold this of the bridge against thee, Ingles,” Pablo 
said. “I see a successful termination for it.” 

“What are you two doing Becoming maricones?” Pilar said 
suddenly beside them in the dark. “That is all thou hast lacked,” 
she said to Pablo. “Get along, Ingles, and cut thy good-bys short 
before this one steals the rest of thy explosive.” 

“Thou dost not understand me, woman,” Pablo said. “The 
Ingles and I understand one another.” 

“Nobody understands thee. Neither God nor thy mother,” Pilar 
said. “Nor I either. Get along, Ingles. Make thy good-bys with 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 405 

thy cropped head and go. Me cago en tu padre, but I begin to t hink 
thou art afraid to see the bull come out.” 

“1 hy mother,” Robert Jordan said. 

“Thou never hadst one,” Pilar whispered cheerfully. “Now go, 
because I have a great desire to start this and get it over with. 
Go with thy people,” she said to Pablo. “Who knows how long 
their stern resolution is good for.? Thou hast a couple that I 
would not trade thee for. Take them and go.” 

Robert Jordan slung his pack on his back and walked over 
to the horses to find Maria. 

“Good-by, guapa,” he said. “I will see thee soon.” 

He had an unreal feeling about all of this now as though he 
had said it all before or as though it were a train that were going, 
especially as though it were a train and he was standing on the 
platform of a railway station. 

“Good-by, Roberto,” she said. “Take much care.” 

“Of course,” he said. He bent his head to kiss her and his pack 
rolled forward against the back of his head so that his forehead 
bumped hers hard. As this happened he knew this had happened 
before too. 

“Don’t cry,” he said, awkward not only from the load. 

“I do not,” she said. “But come back quickly.” 

“Do not worry when you hear the firing. There is bound to be 
much firing.” 

“Nay. Only come back quickly.” 

“Good-by, guapa,” he said awkwardly. 

“Salud, Roberto.” 

Robert Jordan had not felt this young since he had taken the 
train at Red Lodge to go down to Billings to get the train there 
to go away to school for the first time. He had been afraid to 
go and he did not want any one to know it and, at the station, 
just before the conductor picked up the box he would step up on 
to reach the steps of the day coach, his father had kissed him 
good-by and said, “May the Lord watch between thee and me 
while we are absent the one from the other.” His father had been 
a very religious man and he had said it simply and sincerely. 
But his moustache had been moist and his eyes were damp with 
emotion and Robert Jordan had been so embarrassed by all of it. 


406 FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 

the damp religious sound of the prayer, and by his father kissing 
him good-by, that he had felt suddenly so much older than his father 
and sorry for him that he could hardly bear it. 

After the train started he had stood on the rear platform and 
watched the station and the water tower grow smaller and smaller 
and the rails crossed by the ties narrowed toward a point where 
the station and the water tower stood now minute and tiny in 
the steady clicking that was taking him away. 

The brakeman said, “Dad seemed to take your going sort of 
hard. Bob.” 

“Yes,” he had said watching the sagebrush that ran from the 
edge of the road bed between the passing telegraph poles across 
to the streaming-by dusty stretching of the road. He was looking 
for sage hens. 

“You don’t mind going away to school?” 

“No,” he had said and it was true. 

It would not have been true before but it was true that minute and 
it was only now, at this parting, that he ever felt as young again as 
he had felt before that train left. He felt very young now and very 
awkward and he was saying good-by as awkwardly as one can be 
when saying good-by to a young girl when you are a boy in school, 
saying good-by at the front porch, not knowing whether to 
kiss the girl or not. Then he knew it was not the good-by he was 
being awkward about. It was the meeting he was going to. The 
good-by was only a part of the awkwardness he felt about the 
meeting. 

You’re getting them again, he told himself. But I suppose there 
is no one that does not feel that he is too young to do it. He 
would not put a name to it. Come on, he said to himself. Come 
on. It is too early for your second childhood. 

“Good-by, giiapa,” he said. “Good-by, rabbit.” 

“Good-by, my Roberto,” she said and he went over to where 
Anselmo and Agustin were standing and said, “Vdmonos.” 

Anselmo swung his heavy pack up. Agustin, fully loaded since 
the cave, was leaning against a tree, the automatic rifle jutting 
over the top of his load. 

“Good,” he said, "Vdmonos.” 

The three of them started down the hill. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


407 

“Buena suerte, Don Roberto,” Fernando said as the three of 
them passed him as they moved in single file between the trees. 
Fernando was crouched on his haunches a little way from where 
they passed but he spoke with great dignity. 

“Buena suerte thyself, Fernando,” Robert Jordan said. 

“In everything thou doest,” Agustin said. 

“Thank you, Don Roberto,” Fernando said, undisturbed by 
Agustin. 

“That one is a phenomenon, Ingles," Agustin whispered. 

“I believe thee,” Robert Jordan said. “Can I help thee.? Thou 
art loaded like a horse.” 

“I am all right,” Agustin said. “Man, but I am content we are 
started.” 

“Speak softly,” Anselmo said. “From now on speak little and 
softly.” 

Walking carefully, downhill, Anselmo in the lead, Agustin 
next, Robert Jordan placing his feet carefully so that he would 
not slip, feeling the dead pine needles under his rope-soled shoes, 
humping a tree root with one foot and putting a hand forward 
and feeling the cold metal jut of the automatic rifle barrel and the 
folded legs of the tripod, then working sideways down the hill, his 
shoes sliding and grooving the forest floor, putting his left hand 
out again and touching the rough bark of a tree trunk, then as he 
braced himself his hand feeling a smooth place, the base of the 
palm of his hand coming away sticky from the resinous sap 
where a blaze had been cut, they dropped down the steep wooded 
hillside to the point above the bridge where Robert Jordan and 
Anselmo had watched the first day. 

Now Anselmo was halted by a pine tree in the dark and he 
took Robert Jordan’s wrist and whispered, so low Jordan could 
hardly hear him, “Look. There is the fire in his brazier.” 

It was a point of light below where Robert Jordan knew the 
bridge joined the road. 

“Here is where we watched,” Anselmo said. He took Robert 
Jordan’s hand and bent it down to touch a small fresh blaze low 
on a tree trunk. “This I marked while thou watched. To the right 
is where thou wished to put the mdquina" 

“We will place it there.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


408 

“Good.” 

They put the packs down behind the base of the pine trunks 
and the two of them followed Anselmo over to the level place 
where there was a clump of seedling pines. 

“It is here,” Anselmo said. “Just here.” 

“From here, with daylight,” Robert Jordan crouched behind the 
small trees whispered to Agustin, “thou wilt see a small stretch 
of road and the entrance to the bridge. Thou wilt see the length 
of the bridge and a small stretch of road at the other end before 
it rounds the curve of the rocks.” 

Agustin said nothing. 

“Here thou wilt lie while we prepare the exploding and fire on 
anvt^hing that comes from above or below.” 

“Where is that light?” Agustin asked. 

“In the sentry box at this end,” Robert Jordan whispered. 

“Who deals with the sentries?” 

“The old man and I, as I told thee. But if we do not deal with 
them, thou must fire into the sentry boxes and at them if thou 
seest them.” 

“Yes. You told me that.” 

“After the explosion when the people of Pablo come around 
that corner, thou must fire over their heads if others come after 
them. Thou must fire high above them when they appear in any 
event that others must not come. Understandest thou?” 

“Why not? It is as thou saidst last night.” 

“Hast any questions?” 

“Nay. I have two sacks. I can load them from above where 
' it will not be seen and bring them here.” 

“But do no digging here. Thou must be as well hid as we 
were at the top.” 

“Nay. I will bring the dirt in them in the dark. You will see. 
They will not show as I will fix them.” 

“Thou are very close. Sabes? In the daylight this clump shows 
clearly from below.” 

“Do not worry, Ingles. Where goest thou?” 

“I go close below with the small maquina of mine. The old man 
will cross the gorge now to be ready for the box of the other end. 
It faces in that direction.” 


FOR WIfOM THE BELL TOLLS 4O9 

“Then nothing more,” said Agusdn. “Salud, InglSs. Hast thou 
tobacco?” 

“1 hou canst not smoke. It is too close.” 

“Nay. Just to hold in the mouth. To smoke later.” 

Robert Jordan gave him his cigarette case and Agustin took 
three cigarettes and put them inside the front flap of his herds- 
man’s flat cap. He spread the legs of his tripod with the gun 
muzzle in the low pines and commenced unpacking his load by 
touch and laying the things where he wanted them. 

“Nada mas,” he said. “Well, nothing more.” 

Anselmo and Robert Jordan left him there and went back to 
where the packs were. 

“Where had we best leave them?” Robert Jordan whispered. 

“I think here. But canst thou be sure of the sentry with thy 
small mdquina from here?” 

“Is this exactly where we were on that day?” 

“The same tree,” Anselmo said so low Jordan could barely 
hear him and he knew he was speaking without moving his lips 
as he had spoken that first day. “I marked it with my knife.” 

Robert Jordan had the feeling again of it all having happened 
before, but this time it came from his own repetition of a query 
and Anselmo’s answer. It had been the same with Agustin, who 
had asked a question about the sentries although he knew the 
answer. 

“It is close enough. Even too close,” he whispered. “But the 
light is behind us. We are all right here.” 

“Then I will go now to cross the gorge and be in position at 
the other end,” Anselmo said. Then he said, “Pardon me, Ingles. 
So that there is no mistake. In case I am stupid.” 

“What?” breathed very softly. 

“Only to repeat it so that I will do it exactly.” 

“When I fire, thou wilt fire. When thy man is eliminated, cross 
the bridge to me. I will have the packs down there and thou 
wilt do as I tell thee in the placing of the charges. Everything I 
will tell thee. If aught happens to me do it thyself as I showed 
thee. Take thy time and do it well, wedging all securely with 
the wooden wedges and lashing the grenades firmly.” 

“It is all clear to me,” Anselmo said. “I remember it all. Now 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


410 

I go. Keep thee well covered, Ingles, when daylight comes.” 

“When thou firest,” Robert Jordan said, “take a rest and 
make very sure. Do not think of it as a man but as a target, 
de acuerdo? Do not shoot at the whole man but at a point. Shoot for 
the exact center of the belly— if he faces thee. At the middle of 
the back, if he is looking away. Listen, old one. When I fire if 
the man is sitting down he will stand up before he runs or 
crouches. Shoot then. If he is stiU sitting down shoot. Do not 
wait. But make sure. Get to within fifty yards. Thou art a hunter. 
Thou hast no problem.” 

“I will do as thou orderest,” Anselmo said. 

“Yes. I order it thus,” Robert Jordan said. 

I’m glad I remembered to make it an order, he thought. That 
helps him out. That takes some of the curse off. I hope it does, any- 
way. Some of it. I had forgotten about what he told me that first day 
about the killing. 

“It is thus I have ordered,” he said. “Now go.” 

“Me voy’,’ said Anselmo. “Until soon, Ingles.” 

“Until soon, old one,” Robert Jordan said. 

He remembered his father in the railway station and the wetness 
of that farewell and he did not say Scdud nor good-by nor good 
luck nor anything like that. 

“Hast wiped the oil from the bore of thy gun, old one.i*” he 
whispered. “So it will not throw wild.?” 

“In the cave,” Anselmo said. “I cleaned them all with the pull- 
through.” 

“Then until soon,” Robert Jordan said and the old man went 
olf, noiseless on his rope-soled shoes, swinging wide through the 
trees. 

Robert Jordan lay on the pine-needle floor of the forest and 
listened to the first stirring in the branches of the pines of the 
wind that would come with daylight. He took the clip out of the 
submachine gun and worked the lock back and forth. Then he 
turned the gun, with the lock open and in the dark he put the 
muzzle to his lips and blew through the barrel, the metal tasting 
greasy and oily as his tongue touched the edge of the bore. He 
laid the gun across his forearm, the action up so that no pine 
needles or rubbish could get in it, and shucked all the cartridges 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 4II 

out of the clip with his thumb and onto a handkerchief he had 
spread in front of him. Then, feeling each cartridge in the dark 
and turning it in his fingers, he pressed and slid them one at a 
time back into the clip. Now the clip was heavy again in his 
hand and he slid it back into the submachine gun and felt it 
click home. He lay on his belly behind the pine trunk, the gun 
across his left forearm and watched the point of light below him. 
Sometimes he could not see it and then he knew that the man 
in the sentry box had moved in front of the brazier. Robert Jordan 
lay there and waited for daylight. 


CHAPTER FORTY-TWO 


During the time that Pablo had ridden back from the hills to the 
cave and the time the band had dropped down to where they 
had left the horses Andres had made rapid progress toward Golz’s 
headquarters. Where they came onto the main highroad to Nava- 
cerrada on which the trucks were rolling back from the mountain 
there was a control. But when Gomez showed the sentry at the 
control his safe-conduct from the Lieutenant-Colonel Miranda the 
sentry put the light from a flashlight on it, showed it to the other 
sentry with him, then handed it back and saluted. 

“S’ga,” he said. “Continue. But without lights.” 

The motorcycle roared again and Andres was holding tight 
onto the forward seat and they were moving along the highway, 
Gomez riding carefully in the traffic. None of the trucks had 
lights and they were moving down the road in a long convoy. 
There were loaded trucks moving up the road too, and all of them 
raised a dust that Andres could not see in that dark but could 
only feel as a cloud that blew in his face and that he could bite 
between his teeth. 

They were close behind the tailboard of a truck now, the 
motorcycle chuggmg, then Gomez speeded up and passed it and 
another, and another, and another with the other trucks roaring 
and rolling down past them on the left. There was a motorcar 
behind them now and it blasted into the truck noise and the dust 
with its klaxon again and again; then flashed on lights that showed 
the dust like a solid yellow cloud and surged past them in a 
whining rise of gears and a demanding, threatening, bludgeoning 
of klaxoning. 

Then ahead all the trucks were stonned and riding on, working 
his way ahead past ambulances, staff cars, an armored car, an- 
other, and a third, all halted, like heavy, metal, gun-jutting turtles 
in the not yet settled dust, they found another control where there 

412 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


413 

I had been a smash-up. A truck, halting, had not been seen by the 
I truck which followed it and the following truck had run into it 
^ smashing the rear of the first truck in and scattering cases of small- 
J arms ammunition over the road. One case had burst open on 
landing and as Gomez and Andres stopped and wheeled the 
I motorcycle forward through the stalled vehicles to show their 
! safe-conduct at the control Andres walked over the brass hulls of 
the thousand of cartridges scattered across the road in the dust. 

I The second truck had its radiator completely smashed in. The 
; truck behind it was touching its tail-gate. A hundred more were 
piling up behind and an overbooted officer was running back 

I along tbe road shouting to the drivers to back so that the smashed 
truck could be gotten off the road. 

II There were too many trucks for them to be able to back unless 
I the officer reached the end of the ever mounting line and stopped 
I it from increasing and Andres saw him running, stumbling, with 

his flashlight, shouting and cursing and, in the dark, the trucks kept 
coming up. 

The man at the control would not give the safe-conduct back. 
There were two of them, with rifles slung on their backs and 
flashlights in their hands and they were shouting too. The one 
carrying the safe-conduct in his hand crossed the road to a truck 
going in the downhill direction to tell it to proceed to the next 
control and tell them there to hold all trucks until this jam was 
straightened out. The truck driver listened and went on. Then, 
still holding the safe-conduct, the control patrol came over, shout- 
ing, to the truck driver whose load was spilled. 

“Leave it and get ahead for the love of God so we can clear 
th’s!” he shouted at the driver. 

“My transmission is smashed,” the driver, who was bent over 
by the rear of his truck, said. 

“Obscene your transmission. Go ahead, I say.” 

“They do not go ahead when the differential is smashed,” the 
driver told h’m and bent down again. 

“Get thyself pulled then, get ahead so that we can get this other 
obscenity off the road.” 

The driver looked at him sullenly as the control man shone the 
electric torch on the smashed rear gf the truck. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


414 

“Get ahead. Get ahead,” the man shouted, still holding the safe- 
conduct pass in his hand. 

“And my paper,” Gomez spoke to him. “My safe-conduct. We 
are in a hurry.” 

“Take thy safe-conduct to hell,” the man said and handing it 
to him ran across the road to halt a down-coming truck. 

“Turn thyself at the crossroads and put thyself in position to 
pull this wreck forward,” he said to the driver. 

“My orders are ” 

“Obscenity thy orders. Do as I say.” 

The driver let his truck into gear and rolled straight ahead 
down the road and was gone in the dust. 

As Gomez started the motorcycle ahead onto the now clear 
right-hand side of the road past the wrecked truck, Andres, hold- 
ing tight again, saw the control guard halting another truck and 
the driver leaning from the cab and listening to him. 

Now they went fast, swooping along the road that mounted 
steadily toward the mountain. All forward traffic had been stalled 
at the control and there were only the descending trucks passing, 
passing and passing on their left as the motorcycle climbed fast 
and steadily now until it began to overtake the mounting traffic 
which had gone on ahead before the disaster at the control. 

Still without lights they passed four more armored cars, then 
a long line of trucks loaded with troops. The troops were silent 
in the dark and at first Andres only felt their presence rising above 
him, bulking above the truck bodies through the dust as they 
passed. Then another staff car came behind them blasting with 
its klaxon and flicking its lights off and on, and each time the 
lights shone Andres saw the troops, steel-helmeted, their rifles 
vertical, their machine guns pointed up against the dark sky, 
etched sharp against the night that they dropped into when the 
light flicked off. Once as he passed close to a troop truck and the 
lights flashed he saw their faces fixed and sad in the sudden light. 
In their steel helmets, riding in the trucks in the dark toward 
something that they only knew was an attack, their faces were 
drawn with each man’s own problem in the dark and the light 
revealed them as they would not have looked in day, from shame 
to show it to each other, until the bombardment and the attack 
would commence, and no man would think about his face. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


415 

Andres now passing them truck after truck, Gomez still keeping 
successfully ahead of the following staff car, did not think any of 
this about their faces. He only thought, “What an army. What 
equipment. What a mechanization. V aya gentel Look at such 
people. Here we have the army of the Republic. Look at them. 
Camion after camion. All uniformed alike. All with casques of 
steel on their heads. Look at the mdquinas rising from the trucks 
against the coming of planes. Look at the army that has been 
builded!” 

And as the motorcycle passed the high gray trucks full of troops, 
gray trucks with high square cabs and square ugly radiators, 
steadily mounting the road in the dust and the flicking lights of 
the pursuing staff car, the red star of the army showing in the 
light when it passed over the tail gates, showing when the light 
came onto the sides of the dusty truck bodies, as they passed, 
climbing steadily now, the air colder and the road starting to 
turn in bends and switchbacks now, the trucks laboring and 
grinding, some steaming in the light flashes, the motorcycle labor- 
ing now too, and Andres clinging tight to the front seat as they 
climbed, Andres thought this ride on a motorcycle was mucho, 
mucho. He had never been on a motorcycle before and now they 
were climbing a mountain in the midst of all the movement that was 
going to an attack and, as they climbed, he knew now there was 
no problem of ever being back in time for the assault on the 
posts. In this movement and confusion he would be lucky to get 
back by the next night. He had never seen an offensive or any 
of the preparations for one before and as they rode up the road 
he marvelled at the size and power of this army that the Republic 
had built. 

Now they rode on a long slanting, rising stretch of road that 
ran across the face of the mountain and the grade was so steep 
as they neared the top that Gomez told him to get down and 
together they pushed the motorcycle up the last steep grade of 
the pass. At the left, just past the top, there was a loop of road 
where cars could turn and there were lights winking in front of 
a big stone building that bulked long and dark against the night 
sky. 

“Let us go to ask there where the headquarters is,” Gomez said 
to Andres and they wheeled the motorcycle over to where two 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


416 

sentries stood in front of the closed door of the great stone building. 
Gomez leaned the motorcycle against the wail as a motorcyclist 
in a leather suit, showing against the light from inside the building 
as the door opened, came out of the door with a dispatch case 
hung over his shoulder, a wooden-holstered Mauser pistol swung 
against his hip. As the light went off, he found his motorcycle in 
the dark by the door, pushed it until it sputtered and caught, then 
roared off up the road. 

At the door Gomez spoke to one of the sentries. “Captain Gomez 
of the Sixty-Fifth Brigade,” he said. “Can you tell me where to 
find the headquarters of General Golz commanding the Thirty- 
Fifth Division 

“It isn’t here,” the sentry said. 

“What is here?” 

“The Comandancia.” 

“What comandancia?” 

“Well, the Comandancia.” 

“The comandancia of what?” 

“Who art thou to ask so many questions?” the sentry said to 
Gomez in the dark. Here on the top of the pass the sky was 
very clear with the stars out and Andres, out of the dust now, 
could see quite clearly in the dark. Below them, where the road 
turned to the right, he could see clearly the oudine of the trucks 
and cars that passed against the sky line. 

“I am Captain Rogelio Gomez of the first battalion of the 
Sixty-Fifth Brigade and I ask where is the headquarters of General 
Golz,” Gomez said. 

The sentry opened the door a litde way. “Call the corporal of 
the guard,” he shouted inside. 

Just then a big staff car came up over the turn of the road and 
circled toward the big stone building where Andres and Gomez 
were standing waiting for the corporal of the guard. It came 
toward them and stopped outside the door. 

A large man, old and heavy, in an oversized khaki beret, such 
as chasseurs h pied wear in the French Army, wearing an over- 
coat, carrying a map case and wearing a pistol strapped around 
his greatcoat, got out of the back of the car with two other men 
in the uniform of the Internadonal Brigades. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


417 

He spoke in French, which Andres did not understand and of 
which Gomez, who had been a barber, knew only a few words, 
to his chauffeur telling him to get the car away from the door 
and into shelter. 

As he came into the door with the other two officers, Gomez 
saw his face clearly in the light and recognized him. He had seen 
him at political meetings and he had often read articles by him in 
Mundo Obrero translated from the French. He recognized his 
bushy eyebrows, his watery gray eyes, his chin and the double 
chin under it, and he knew him for one of France’s great modern 
revolutionary figures who had led the mutiny of the French Navy 
in the Black Sea. Gomez knew this man’s high political place in 
the International Brigades and he knew this man would know 
where Golz’s headquarters were and be able to direct him there. 
He did not know what this man had become with time, disap- 
pointment, bitterness both domestic and political, and thwarted 
ambition and that to question him was one of the most dangerous 
things that any man could do. Knowing nothing of this he stepped 
forward into the path of this man, saluted with his clenched fist 
and said, “Comrade Marty, we are the bearers of a dispatch for 
General Golz. Can you direct us to his headquarters.? It is urgent.” 

The tall, heavy old man looked at Gomez with his outthrust 
head and considered him carefully with his watery eyes. Even 
here at the front in the light of a bare electric bulb, he having just 
come in from driving in an open car on a brisk night, his gray 
face had a look of decay. His face looked as though it were 
modelled from the waste material you find under the claws of a 
very old lion. 

“You have what. Comrade?” he asked Gomez, speaking Spanish 
with a strong Catalan accent. His eyes glanced sideways at Andres, 
slid over him, and went back to Gomez. 

“A dispatch for General Golz to be delivered at his headquarters, 
Comrade Marty.” 

“Where is it from. Comrade?” 

“From behind the fascist lines,” Gomez said. 

Andre Marty extended his hand for the dispatch and the other 
papers. He glanced at them and put them in his pocket. 

“Arrest them both,” he said to the corporal of the guard. “Have 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


418 

them searched and bring them to me when I send for them.” 

With the dispatch in his pocket he strode on into the interior 
of the big stone house. 

Outside in the guard room Gomez and Andres were being 
searched by the guard. 

“What passes with that man?” Gomez said to one of the guards. 

“Estd loco,” the guard said. “He is crazy.” 

“No. He is a political figure of great importance,” Gomez said. 
“He is the chief commissar of the International Brigades.” 

“Apesar de eso, estd loco,” the corporal of the guard said. “All the 
same he’s crazy. What do you behind the fascist lines?” 

“This comrade is a guerilla from there,” Gomez told him while 
the man searched him. “He brings a dispatch to General Golz. 
Guard well my papers. Be careful with that money and that 
bullet on the string. It is from my first wound at Guadarama.” 

“Don’t worry,” the corporal said. “Everything will be in this 
drawer. Why didn’t you ask me where Golz was?” 

“We tried to. I asked the sentry and he called you.” 

“But then came the crazy and you asked him. No one should 
ask him anything. He is crazy. Thy Golz is ud the road three 
kilometers from here and to the right in the rocks of the forest.” 

“Can you not let us go to him now?” 

“Nay. It would be my head. I must take thee to the crazy. 
Besides, he has thy dispatch.” 

“Can you not tell some one?” 

“Yes,” the corporal said. “I will tell the first responsible one I 
see. All know that he is crazy.” 

“I had always taken him for a great figure,” Gomez said. “For 
one of the glories of France.” 

“He may be a glory and all,” the corporal said and put his 
hand on Andres’s shoulder. “But he is crazy as a bedbug. He has 
a mania for shooting people.” 

“Truly shooting them?” 

“Como lo oyes,” the corporal said. “That old one kills more than 
the bubonic plague. Mata mds que la peste buhonka. But he doesn’t 
kill fascists like we do. Que va. Not in joke. Mata bichos raros. 
He kills rare things. Trotzkyites. Divagationers. Any type of rare 
beasts.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


419 


Andres did not understand any of this. 

“When we were at Escorial we shot I don’t know how many for 
him,” the corporal said. “We always furnish the firing party. The 
men of the Brigades would not shoot their own men. Especially 
the French. To avoid difficulties it is always us who do it. We 
shot French. We have shot Belgians. We have shot others of 
divers nationality. Of all types. Tiene mania de fusilar gente. Al- 
ways for political things. He’s crazy. Purifica mas que el Salvarsdn. 
He purifies more than Salvarsan.” 

“But you will tell some one of this dispatch?” 

“Yes, man. Surely. I know every one of these two Brigades. 
Every one comes through here. I know even up to and through 
the Russians, although only few speak Spanish, We will keep this 
crazy from shooting Spaniards.” 

“But the dispatch.” 

“The dispatch, too. Do not worry, Comrade. We know how to 
deal with this crazy. He is only dangerous with his own people. 
We understand him now.” 

“Bring in the two prisoners,” came the voice of Andre Marty. 

"Quereis echar un trago?” the corporal asked. “Do you want a 
drink?” 

“Why not?” 

The corporal took a bottle of Anis from a cupboard and both 
Gomez and Andres drank. So did the corporal. He wiped his 
mouth on his hand. 

“V dmonos,” he said. 

They went out of the guard room with the swallowed burn of 
the Anis warming their mouths, their bellies and their hearts and 
walked down the hall and entered the room where Marty sat behind 
a long table, his map spread in front of him, his red-and-blue pencil, 
with which he played at being a general officer, in his hand. To 
Andres it was only one more thing. There had been many tonight. 
There were always many. If your papers were in order and your 
heart was good you were in no danger. Eventually they turned you 
loose and you were on your way. But the Ingles had said to hurry. 
He knew now he could never get back for the bridge but they had a 
dispatch to deliver and this old man there at the table had put it 
in his pocket. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


420 

“Stand there,” Marty said without looking up. 

“Listen, Comrade Marty,” Gomez broke out, the Anis fortifying 
his anger. “Once tonight we have been impeded by the ignorance 
of the anarchists. Then by the sloth of a bureaucratic fascist. Now 
by thy oversuspicion of a Communist.” 

“Close your mouth,” Marty said without looking up. “This is 
not a meeting.” 

“Comrade Marty, this is a matter of the utmost urgence,” Gomez 
said. “Of the greatest importance.” 

The corporal and the soldier with them were taking a lively 
interest in this as though they were at a play they had seen many 
times but whose excellent moments they could always savor. 

“Everything is of urgence,” Marty said. “All things are of im- 
portance.” Now he looked up at them, holding the pencil. “How 
did you know Golz was here? Do you understand how serious it 
is to come asking for an individual general befo''e an attack? How 
could you know such a general would be here?” 

“Tell him, tu” Gomez said to Andres. 

“Comrade General,” Andres started— Andre Marty did not cor- 
rect him in the mistake in rank— “I was given that packet on the 
other side of the lines ” 

“On the other side of the lines?” Marty said. “Yes, I heard him 
say you came from the fascist lines.” 

“It was given to me. Comrade General, by an Indies named 
Roberto who had come to us as a dynamiter for this of the bridge. 
Understandeth?” 

“Continue thy story,” Marty said to Andres; using the term 
storv as you would say lie, falsehood, or fabrication. 

“Well, Comrade General, the Ingles told me to bring it to the 
General Golz with all speed. He makes an attack in these hUls 
now on this day and all we ask is to take it to him now promptly 
if it pleases the Comrade General.” 

Marty shook his head again. He was looking at Andres but he 
was not seeing him. 

Golz. he thoiieht in a mix'-ure of horror and exultation as a man 
might feel hearing that a business enemy had been killed in a 
particularly nasty motor accident or that some one vou hated but 
whose probity you had never doubted had been guilty of defalca- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


421 

tion. That Golz should be one of them, too. That Golz should be in 
such obvious communication with the fascists. Golz that he had 
known for nearly twenty years. Golz who had captured the gold 
train that winter with Lucacz in Siberia. Golz who had fought 
against Kolchak, and in Poland. In the Caucasus. In China, and here 
since the first October. But he had been close to Tukachevsky. To 
Voroshilov, yes, too. But to Tukachevsky. And to who else? Here 
to Karkov, of course. And to Lucacz. But all the Hungarians had 
been intriguers. He hated Gall. Golz hated Gall. Remember that. 
Make a note of that. Golz has always hated Gall. But he favors Putz. 
Remember that. And Duval is his chief of staff. See what stems 
from that. You’ve heard him say Copic’s a fool. That is definitive. 
That exists. And now this dispatch from the fascist lines. Only by 
pruning out of these rotten branches can the, tree remain healthy 
and grow. The rot must become apparent for it is to be destroyed. 
But Golz of all men. That Golz should be one of the traitors. He 
knew that you could trust no one. No one. Ever. Not your wife. 
Not your brother. Not your oldest comrade. No one. Ever. 

“Take them away,” he said to the guards. “Guard them care- 
fully.” The corporal looked at the soldier. This had been very 
quiet for one of Marty’s performances. 

“Comrade Marty,” Gomez said. “Do not be insane. Listen to 
me, a loyal officer and comrade. That is a dispatch that must be 
delivered. This comrade has brought it through the fascist lines 
to give to Comrade General Golz.” 

“Take them away,” Marty said, now kindly, to the guard. He 
was sorry for them as human beings if it should be necessary to 
liquidate them. But it was the tragedy of Golz that oppressed him. 
That it should be Golz, he thought. He would take the fascist 
communication at once to Varloff. No, better he would take it to 
Golz himself and watch him as he received it. That was what 
he would do. How could he be sure of Varloff if Golz was one 
of them? No. This was a thing to be very careful about. 

Andres turned to Gomez, “You mean he is not going to send 
the dispatch?” he asked, unbelieving. 

“Don’t you see?” Gomez said. 

"Me cago en su puta madrel” Andres said. "Estd loco." 

“Yes,” Gomez said. “He is crazy. You are crazy! Hear! Crazy!” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


422 

he shouted at Marty who was back now bending over the map 
with his red-and-blue pencil. “Hear me, you crazy murderer.'*” 

“Take them away,” Marty said to the guard. “Their minds are 
unhinged by their great guilt.” 

There was a phrase the corporal recognized. He had heard that 
before. 

“You crazy murderer!” Gomez shouted. 

"Hijo de la gran puta,” Andres said to him. "Loco." 

The stupidity of this man angered him. If he was a crazy let 
him be removed as a crazy. Let the dispatch be taken from his 
pocket. God damn this crazy to hell. His heavy Spanish anger 
was rising out of his usual calm and good temper. In a Uttle while 
it would blind him. 

Marty, looking at his map, shook his head sadly as the guards 
took Gomez and Andres out. The guards had enjoyed hearing him 
cursed but on the whole they had been disappointed in the 
performance. They had seen much better ones. Andre Marty did 
not mind the men cursing him. So many men had cursed him at 
the end. He was always genuinely sorry for them as human be- 
ings. He always told himself that and it was one of the last true 
ideas that was left to him that had ever been his own. 

He sat there, his moustache and his eyes focused on the map, on 
the map that he never truly understood, on the brown tracing of 
the contours that were traced fine and concentric as a spider’s web. 
He could see the heights and the valleys from the contours but 
he never really understood why it should be this height and why 
this valley was the one. But at the General Staff where, because of 
the system of Political Commissars, he could intervene as the 
political head of the Brigades, he would put his finger on such and 
such a numbered, brown-thin-lined encircled spot among the greens 
of woods cut by the lines of roads that parallel the never casual 
winding of a river and say, “There. That is the point of weakness.” 

Gall and Copic, who were men of politics and of ambition, would 
agree and later, men who never saw the map, but heard the num- 
ber of the hill before they left their starting place and had the earth 
of diggings on it pointed out, would climb its side to find their death 
along its slope or, being halted by machine guns placed in olive 
groves would never get up it at all. Or on other fronts they might 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


423 

scale it easily and be no better off than they had been before. But 
when Marty put his finger on the map in Golz’s staff the scar- 
headed, white-faced General’s jaw muscles would tighten and he 
would think, “I should shoot you, Andre Marty, before I let you 
put that gray rotten finger on a contour map of mine. Damn you 
to hell for all the men you’ve killed by interfering in matters you 
know nothing of. Damn the day they named tractor factories and 
villages and co-operatives for you so that you are a symbol that I 
cannot touch. Go and suspect and exhort and intervene and de- 
nounce and butcher some other place and leave my staff alone.” 

But instead of saying that Golz would only lean back away 
from the leaning bulk, the pushing finger, the watery gray eyes, 
the gray-white moustache and the bad breath and say, “Yes, Com- 
rade Marty. I see your point. It is not well taken, however, and I 
do not agree. You can try to go over my head if you like. Yes. 
You can make it a Party matter as you say. But I do not agree.” 

So now Andre Marty sat working over his map at the bare table 
with the raw light on the unshaded electric light bulb over his 
head, the overwide beret pulled forward to shade his eyes, refer- 
ring to the mimeographed copy of the orders for the attack and 
slowly and carefully and laboriously working them out on the map 
as a young officer might work a problem at a staff college. He was 
engaged in war. In his mind he was commanding troops; he had 
the right to interfere and this he believed to constitute command. 
So he sat there with Robert Jordan’s dispatch to Golz in his pocket 
and Gomez and Andres waited in the guard room and Robert 
Jordan lay in the woods above the bridge. 

It is doubtful if the outcome of Andres’s mission would have been 
any different if he and Gomez had been allowed to proceed with- 
out Andre Marty’s hindrance. There was no one at the front with 
sufficient authority to cancel the attack. The machinery had been in 
motion much too long for it to be stopped suddenly now. There is 
a great inertia about all military operations of any size. But once 
this inertia has been overcome and movement is under way they are 
almost as hard to arrest as to initiate. 

But on this night the old man, his beret pulled forward, was still 
sitting at the table with his map when the door opened and Karkov 
the Russian journalist came in with two other Russians in civiUan 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


424 

clothes, leather coats and caps. The corporal of the guard closed the 
door reluctantly behind them. Karkov had been the first responsible 
man he had been able to communicate with. 

“Tovarich Marty,” said Karkov in his politely disdainful lisping 
voice and smiled, showing his bad teeth. 

Marty stood up. He did not like Karkov, but Karkov, coming 
from Pravda and in direct communication with Stalin, was at this 
moment one of the three most important men in Spain. 

“Tovarich Karkov,” he said. 

“You are preparing the attack.?” Karkov said insolently, nodding 
toward the map. 

“I am studying it,” Marty answered. 

“Are you attacking.? Or is it Golz.?” Karkov asked smoothly. 

“I am only a commissar, as you know,” Marty told him. 

“No,” Karkov said. “You are modest. You are really a general. 
You have your map and your field glasses. But were you not an 
admiral once. Comrade Marty?” 

“I was a gunner’s mate,” said Marty. It was a lie. He had really 
been a chief yeoman at the time of the mutiny. But he thought now, 
always, that he had been a gunner’s mate. 

“Ah. I thought you were a first-class yeoman,” Karkov said. “I 
always get my facts wrong. It is the mark of the journalist.” 

The other Russians had taken no part in the conversation. They 
were both looking over Marty’s shoulder at the map and occasionally 
making a remark to each other in their own language. Marty and 
Karkov spoke French after the first greeting. 

“It is better not to get facts wrong in Pravda," Marty said. He 
said it brusquely to build himself up again. Karkov always punc- 
tured him. The French word is degonfler and Marty was worried 
and made wary by him. It was hard, when Karkov spoke, to re- 
member with what importance he, Andre Marty, came from the 
Central Committee of the French Communist Party. It was hard 
to remember, too, that he was untouchable. Karkov seemed always 
to touch him so lightly and whenever he wished. Now Karkov said, 
“I usually correct them before I send them to Pravda. I am quite 
accurate in Pravda. Tell me, Comrade Martv, have you heard any- 
thing of any message coming through for Golz from one of our 
partizan group operating toward Segovia.? There is an American 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


425 

comrade there named Jordan that we should have heard from. There 
have been reports of fighting there behind the fascist lines. He would 
have sent a message through to Golz.” 

“An American.?” Marty asked. Andres had said an Ingles. So that 
is what it was. So he had been mistaken. Why had those fools spoken 
to him anyway.? 

“Yes,” Karkov looked at him contemptuously, “a young Ameri- 
can of slight political development but a great way with the Span- 
iards and a fine partizan record. Just give me the dispatch. Comrade 
Marty. It has been delayed enough.” 

“What dispatch?” Marty asked. It was a very stupid thing to say 
and he knew it. But he was not able to admit he was wrong that 
quickly and he said it anyway to delay the moment of humiliation. 

“The dispatch in your pocket from young Jordan to Golz,” Karkov 
said through his bad teeth. 

Andre Marty put his hand in his pocket and laid the dispatch on 
the table. He looked Karkov squarely in the eye. All right. He was 
wrong and there was nothing he could do about it now but he was 
not accepting any humiliation. “And the safe-conduct pass,” Karkov 
said softly. 

Marty laid it beside the dispatch. 

“Comrade Corporal,” Karkov called in Spanish. 

The corporal opened the door and came in. He looked quickly at 
Andre Marty, who stared ba ck at him like an old boar which has 
been brought to bay by hounds. There was no fear on Marty’s face 
and no humiliation. He was only angry, and he was only tempo- 
rarily at bay. He knew these dogs could never hold him. 

“Take these to the two comrades in the guard room and direct 
them to General Golz’s headquarters,” Karkov said. “There has 
been too much delay.” 

The corporal went out and Marty looked after him, then looked 
at Karkov. 

“Tovarich Marty,” Karkov said, “I am going to find out just how 
untouchable you are.” 

Marty looked straight at him and said nothing. 

“Don’t start to have any plans about the corporal, either,” Karkov 
went on. “It was not the corporal. I saw the two men in the guard 
room and they spoke to me” (this was a lie) . “I hope all men always 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


426 

will speak to me” (this was the truth although it was the corporal 
who had spoken). But Karkov had this belief in the good which 
could come from his own accessibility and the humanizing possi- 
bility of benevolent intervention. It was the one thing he was never 
cynical about. 

“You know when I am in the U.S.S.R. people write to me in 
Pravda when there is an injustice in a town in Azerbaijan. Did you 
know that? They say ‘Karkov will help us.’” 

Andre Marty looked at him with no expression on his face except 
anger and dislike. There was nothing in his mind now but that 
Karkov had done something against him. All right, Karkov, power 
and all, could watch out. 

■‘This is something else,” Karkov went on, “but it is the same 
principle. I am going to find out just how untouchable you are. Com- 
rade Marty. I would like to know if it could not be possible to 
change the name of that tractor factory.” 

Andre Marty looked away from him and back to the map. 

“What did young Jordan say?” Karkov asked him. 

“I did not read it,” Andre Marty said. “Et maintenant fiche moi la 
paix, Comrade Karkov.” 

“Good,” said Karkov. “I leave you to your military labors.” 

He stepped out of the room and walked to the guard room. Andres 
and Gomez were already gone and he stood there a moment look- 
ing up the road and at the mountain tops beyond that showed now 
in the first gray of daylight. We must get on up there, he thought. 
It will be soon, now. 

Andres and Gomez were on the motorcycle on the road again and 
it was getting light. Now Andres, holding again to the back of the 
seat ahead of him as the motorcycle climbed turn after switch-back 
turn in a faint gray mist that lay over the top of the pass, felt the 
motorcycle speed under him, then skid and stop and they were stand- 
ing by the motorcycle on a long, down-slope of road and in the 
woods, on their left, were tanks covered with pine branches. There 
were troops here all through the woods Andres saw men cariA'ing 
the long poles of stretchers over their shoulders. Three staff cars 
were off the road to the right, in under the trees, with branches laid 
against their sides and other pine branches over their tons. 

Gomez wheeled the motorcycle up to one of them. He leaned it 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 427 

against a pine tree and spoke to the chauffeur who was sitting by 
the car, his back against a tree. 

“I’ll take you to him,” the chauffeur said. “Put thy moto out of 
sight and cover it with these.” He pointed to a pile of cut branches. 

With the sun just starting to come through the high branches of 
the pine trees, Gomez and Andres followed the chauffeur, whose 
name was Vicente, through the pines across the road and up the 
slope to the entrance of a dugout from the roof of which signal wires 
ran on up over the wooded slope. They stood outside while the 
chauffeur went in and Andres admired the construction of the dug- 
out which showed only as a hole in the hillside, with no dirt scat- 
tered about, but which he could see, from the entrance, was both 
deep and profound with men moving around in it freely with no 
need to duck their heads under the heavy timbered roof. 

Vicente, the chauffeur, came out. 

“He is up above where they are deploying for the attack,” he said. 
“I gave it to his Chief of Staff. He signed for it. Here.” 

He handed Gomez the receipted envelope. Gomez gave it to 
Andres, who looked at it and put it inside his shirt. 

“What is the name of him who signed.!^” he asked. 

“Duval,” Vicente said. 

“Good,” said Andres. “He was one of three to whom I might 
give it.” 

“Should we wait for an answer.?” Gomez asked Andres. 

“It might be best. Though where I will find the Ingles and the 
others after that of the bridge neither God knows.” 

“Come wait with me,” Vicente said, “until the General returns. 
And I will get thee coffee. Thou must be hungry.” 

“And these tanks,” Gomez said to him. 

They were passing the branch-covered, mud-colored tanks, each 
with two deep-ridged tracks over the pine needles showing where 
they had swung and backed from the road. Their 45-mm. guns 
jutted horizontally under the branches and the drivers and gunners 
in their leather coats and ridged helmets sat with their backs against 
the trees or lay sleeping on the ground. 

“These are the reserve,” Vicente said. “Also these troops are in 
reserve. Those who commence the attack are above.” 

“They are many,” Andres said. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


428 

“Yes,” Vicente said. “It is a full division.” 

Inside the dugout Duval, holding the opened dispatch from Rob- 
ert Jordan in his left hand, glancing at his wrist watch on the same 
hand, reading the dispatch for the fourth time, each time feeUng the 
sweat come out from under his armpit and run down his flank, said 
into the telephone, “Get me position Segovia, then. He’s left.? Get me 
position Avila.” 

He kept on with the phone. It wasn’t any good. He had talked 
to both brigades. Golz had been up to inspect the dispositions for 
the attack and was on his way to an observation post. He called the 
observation post and he was not there. 

“Get me planes one,” Duval said, suddenly taking aU responsibility. 
He would take responsibility for holding it up. It was better to hold 
it up. You could not send them to a surprise attack against an enemy 
that was waiting for it. You couldn’t do it. It was just murder. You 
couldn’t. You mustn’t. No matter what. They could shoot him if 
they wanted. He would call the airfield directly and get the bom- 
bardment cancelled. But suppose it’s just a holding attack.? Suppose 
we were supposed to draw off all that material and those forces.? 
Suppose that is what it is for.? They never tell you it is a holding 
attack when you make it. 

“Cancel the call to planes one,” he told the signaller. “Get me the 
69th Brigade observation post.” 

He was still calling there when he heard the first sound of the 
planes. 

It was just then he got through to the observation post. 

“Yes,” Golz said quietly. 

He was sitting leaning back against the sandbag, his feet against 
a rock, a cigarette hung from his lower lip and he was looking 
up and over his shoulder while he was talking. He was seeing the 
expanding wedges of threes, silver and thundering in the sky that 
were coming over the far shoulder of the mountain where the first 
sun was striking. He watched them come shining and beautiful in 
the sun. He saw the twin circles of light where the sun shone on the 
propellers as they came. 

“Yes,” he said into the telephone, speaking in French because it 
was Duval on the wire. "Nous sommes joutus. Oui. Comme tou- 
jours. Oui. C e St dommage. Oui. It’s a shame it came too late.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


429 

His eyes, watching the planes coming, were very proud. He saw 
the red wing markings now and he watched their steady, stately 
roaring advance. This was how it could be. These were our planes. 
They had come, crated on ships, from the Black Sea through the 
Straits of Marmora, through the Dardanelles, through the Mediter- 
ranean and to here, unloaded lovingly at Alicante, assembled ably, 
tested and found perfect and now flown in lovely hammering pre- 
cision, the V’s tight and pure as they camp now high and silver in 
the morning sun to blast those ridges across there and blow them 
roaring high so that we can go through. 

Golz knew that once they had passed overhead and on, the bombs 
would fall, looking like porpoises in the air as they tumbled. And 
then the ridge tops would spout and roar in jumping clouds and 
disappear in one great blowing cloud. Then the tanks would grind 
clanking up those two slopes and after them would go his two 
brigades. And if it had been a surprise they could go on and down 
and over and through, pausing, cleaning up, dealing with, much to 
do, much to be done intelligently with the tanks helping, with the 
tanks wheeling and returning, giving covering fire and others bring- 
ing the attackers up then slipping on and over and through and 
pushing down beyond. This was how it would be if there was no 
treason and if all did what they should. 

There were the two ridges, and there were the tanks ahead and 
there were his two good brigades ready to leave the woods and 
here came the planes now. Everything he had to do had been done 
as it should be. 

But as he watched the planes, almost up to him now, he felt sick 
at his stomach for he knew from having heard Jordan’s dispatch 
over the phone that there would be no one on those two ridges. 
They’d be withdrawn a little way below in narrow trenches to escape 
the fragments, or hiding in the timber and when the bombers passed 
they’d get back up there with their machine guns and their auto- 
matic weapons and the anti-tank guns Jordan had said went up the 
road, and it would be one famous balls up more. But the planes, now 
coming deafeningly, were how it could have been and Golz watch- 
ing them, looking up, said into the telephone, “No. Rien d. faire. 
Rien. Faut pas penser. Faut accepter.” 

Golz watched the planes with his hard proud eyes that knew 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


430 

how things could be and how they would be instead and said, 
proud of how they could be, believing in how they could be, even 
if they never were, “Bon. Nous ferons notre petit possible," and 
hung up. 

But Duval did not hear him. Sitting at the table holding the re- 
ceiver, all he heard was the roar of the planes and he thought, now, 
maybe this time, listen to them come, maybe the bombers will blow 
them all off, maybe we will get a break-through, maybe he will 
get the reserves he asked for, maybe this is it, maybe this is the 
time. Go on. Come on. Go on. The roar was such that he could 
not hear what he was thinking. 


CHAPTER FORTY-THREE 


Robert Jordan lay behind the trunk of a pine tree on the slope of 
the hill above the road and the bridge and watched it become day- 
light. He loved this hour of the day always and now he watched 
it; feeling it gray within him, as though he were a part of the slow 
lightening that comes before the rising of the sun; when solid things 
darken and space lightens and the lights that have shone in the 
night go yellow and then fade as the day comes. The pine trunks 
below him were hard and clear now, their trunks solid and brown 
and the road was shiny with a wisp of mist over it. The dew had 
wet him and the forest floor was soft and he felt the give of the 
brown, dropped pine needles under his elbows. Below he saw, 
through the light mist that rose from the stream bed, the steel of the 
bridge, straight and rigid across the gap, with the wooden sentry 
boxes at each end. But as he looked the structure of the bridge was 
still spidery and fine in the mist that hung over the stream. 

He saw the sentry now in his box as he stood, his back with 
the hanging blanket coat topped by the steel casque on his head 
showing as he leaned forward over the hole-punched petrol tin of 
the brazier, warming his hands. Robert Jordan heard the stream, 
far down in the rocks, and he saw a faint, thin smoke that rose 
from the sentry box. 

He looked at his watch and thought, I wonder if Andres got 
through to Golz ? If we are going to blow it I would like to breathe 
very slowly and slow up the time again and feel it. Do you think 
he made it.? Andres.? And if he did would they call it off? If they 
had time to call it off.? Que va. Do not worry. They will or they 
won’t. There are no more decisions and in a little while you will 
know. Suppose the attack is successful. Golz said it could be. That 
there was a possibility. With our tanks coming down that road, the 
people coming through from the right and down and past La Gran- 
ja and the whole left of the mountains turned. Why don’t you ever 
think of how it is to win.? You’ve been on the defensive for so long 

431 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


432 

that you can’t think of that. Sure. But that was before all that stuff 
went up this road. That was before all the planes came. Don’t be so 
naive. But remember this that as long as we can hold them here we 
keep the fascists tied up. They can’t attack any other country until 
they finish with us and they can never finish with us. If the French 
help at all, if only they leave the frontier open and if we get planes 
from America they can never finish with us. Never, if we get any- 
thing at all. These people will fight forever if they’re well armed. 

No you must not expect victory here, not for several years maybe. 
This is just a holding attack. You must not get illusions about 
it now. Suppose we got a break-through today.? This is our first 
big attack. Keep your sense of proportion. But what if we should 
have it.? Don’t get excited, he told himself. Remember what went 
up the road. You’ve done what you could about that. We should 
have portable short-wave sets, though. We will, in time. But we 
haven’t yet. You just watch now and do what you should. 

Today is only one day in all the days that will ever be. But what 
will happen in all the other days that ever come can depend on what 
you do today. It’s been that way all this year. It’s been that way so 
many times. All of this war is that way. You are getting very pomp- 
ous in the early morning, he told himself. Look there what’s coming 
now. 

He saw the two men in blanket capes and steel helmets come 
around the corner of the road walking toward the bridge, their 
rifles slung over their shoulders. One stopped at the far end of the 
bridge and was out of sight in the sentry box. The other came on 
across the bridge, walking slowly and heavily. He stoppted on the 
bridge and spat into the gorge, then came on slowly to the near end 
of the bridge where the other sentry spoke to him and then started 
off back over the bridge. The sentry who was relieved walked faster 
than the other had done (because he’s going to coffee, Robert Jordan 
thought) but he too spat down into the gorge. 

I wonder if that is superstition.? Robert Jordan thought. I'll have 
to take me a spit in that gorge too. If I can spit by then. No. 
It can’t be verv powerful medicine. It can’t work. I’ll have to prove 
it doesn’t work before I am out there. 

The new sentry had gone inside the box and sat down. His rifle 
with the bayonet fixed was leaning against the wall. Robert Jordan 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


433 

took his glasses from his shirt pocket and turned the eyepieces until 
the end of the bridge showed sharp and gray-painted-metal clear. 
Then he moved them onto the sentry box. 

The sentry sat leaning against the wall. His helmet hung on a peg 
and his face showed clearly. Robert Jordan saw he was the same 
man who had been there on guard two days before in the afternoon 
watch. He was wearing the same knitted stocking-cap. And he had 
not shaved. His cheeks were sunken and his cheekbones promi- 
nent. He had bushy eyebrows that grew together in the center. 
He looked sleepy and as Robert Jordan watched him he yawned. 
Then he took out a tobacco pouch and a packet of papers and rolled 
himself a cigarette. He tried to make a lighter work and finally 
put it in his pocket and went over to the brazier, leaned over, 
reached inside, brought up a piece of charcoal, juggled it in 
one hand while he blew on it, then lit the cigarette and tossed 
the lump of charcoal back into the brazier. 

Robert Jordan, looking through the Zeiss 8-power glasses, watched 
his face as he leaned against the wall of the sentry box drawing on 
the cigarette. Then he took the glasses down, folded them to- 
gether and put them in his pocket. 

I won’t look at him again, he told himself. 

He lay there and watched the road and tried not to think at all. 
A squirrel chittered from a pine tree below him and Robert Jordan 
watched the squirrel come down the tree trunk, stopping on his 
way down to turn his head and look toward where the man was 
watching. He saw the squirrel’s eyes, small and bright and watched 
his tail jerk in excitement. Then the squirrel crossed to another tree, 
moving on the ground in long, small-pawed, tail-exaggerated 
bounds. On the tree trunk he looked back at Robert Jordan, then 
pulled himself around the trunk and out of sight. Then Robert 
Jordan heard the squirrel chitter from a high branch of the pine tree 
and he watched him there, spread flat along the branch, his tail 
jerking. 

Robert Jordan looked down through the pines to the sentry box 
again. He would like to have had the squirrel with him in his pocket. 
He would like to have had anything that he could touch. He rubbed 
his elbows against the pine needles but it was not the same. No- 
body knows how lonely you can be when you do this. Me, though, 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


434 

I know. I hope that Rabbit will get out of this all right. Stop that 
now. Yes, sure. But I can hope that and I do. That I blow it well and 
that she gets out all right. Good. Sure. Just that. That is all I 
want now. 

He lay there now and looked away from the road and the sentry 
box and across to the far mountain. Just do not think at all, he told 
himself. He lay there quietly and watched the morning come. It was 
a fine early summer morning and it came very fast now in the end 
of May. Once a motorcyclist in a leather coat and all-leather helmet 
with an automadc rifle in a holster by his left leg came across the 
bridge and went on up the road. Once an ambulance crossed the 
bridge, passed below him, and went up the road. But that was 
all. He smelled the pines and he heard the stream and the bridge 
showed clear now and beautiful in the morning hght. He lay there 
behind the pine tree, with the submachine gun across his left fore- 
arm, and he never looked at the sentry box again until, long after 
it seemed that it was never coming, that nothing could happen on 
such a lovely late May morning, he heard the sudden, clustered, 
thudding of the bombs. 

As he heard the bombs, the first thumping noise of them, before 
the echo of them came back in thunder from the mountain, Robert 
Jordan drew in a long breath and lifted the submachine gun from 
where it lay. His arm felt stiff from its weight and his fingers were 
heavy with reluctance. 

The man in the sentry box stood up when he heard the bombs. 
Robert Jordan saw him reach for his rifle and step forward out of 
the box listening. He stood in the road with the sun shining on 
him. The knitted cap was on the side of his head and the sun was 
on his unshaved face as he looked up into the sky toward where 
the planes were bombing. 

There was no mist on the road now and Robert Jordan saw the 
man, clearly and sharply, standing there on the road looking up at 
the sky. The sun shone bright on him through the trees. 

Robert Jordan felt his own breath tight now as though a strand 
of wire bound his chest and, steadying his elbows, feeling the corru- 
gations of the forward grip against his fingers, he put the oblong of 
the foresight, settled now in the notch of the rear, onto the center of 
the man’s chest and squeezed the trigger gently. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


435 

He felt the quick, liquid, spastic lurching of the gun against his 
shoulder and on the road the man, looking surprised and hurt, 
slid forward on his knees and his forehead doubled to the road. 
His rifle fell by him and lay there with one of the man’s fingers 
twisted through the trigger guard, his wrist bent forward. The 
rifle lay, bayonet forward on the road. Robert Jordan looked away 
from the man lying with his head doubled under on the road to 
the bridge, and the sentry box at the other end. He could not see the 
other sentry and he looked down the slope to the right where he 
knew Agustm was hidden. Then he heard Anselmo shoot, the 
shot smashing an echo back from the gorge. Then he heard him 
shoot again. 

With the second shot came the cracking hoom of grenades from 
around the corner below the bridge. Then there was the noise of 
grenades from well up the road to the left. Then he heard rifle- 
firing up the road and from below came the noise of Pablo’s cavalry 
automatic rifle spat-spat-spat-spattmg into the noise of the grenades. 
He saw Anselmo scrambling down the steep cut to the far end of 
the bridge and he slung the submachine gun over his shoulder and 
picked up the two heavy packs from behind the pine trunks and 
with one in each hand, the packs pulling his arms so that he felt 
the tendons would pull out of his shoulders, he ran lurching down 
the steep slope to the road. 

As he ran he heard Agustm shouting, “Buena caza, Ingles. 
Buena caza!’’ and he thought, “Nice hunting, like hell, nice hunt- 
ing,” and just then he heard Anselmo shoot at the far end of the 
bridge, the noise of the shot clanging in the steel girders. He 
passed the sentry where he lay and ran onto the bridge, the packs 
swinging. 

The old man came running toward him, holding his carbine 
in one hand, “Sin novedad’’ he shouted. “There’s nothing wrong. 
Tuve que rematarlo. I had to finish him.” 

Robert Jordan, kneeling, opening the packs in the center of the 
bridge taking out his material, saw that tears were running down 
Anselmo ’s cheeks through the gray beard stubble. 

"Yo mate uno tambien’,’ he said to Anselmo. “I killed one too,” 
and jerked his head toward where the sentry lay hunched over in 
the road at the end of the bridge. 


436 FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 

“Yes, man, yes,” Anselmo said. “We have to kill them and we kill 
them.” 

Robert Jordan was climbing down into the framework of the 
bridge. The girders were cold and wet with dew under his hands 
and he climbed carefully, feeling the sun on his back, bracing him- 
self in a bridge truss, hearing the noise of the tumbling water below 
him, hearing firing, too much firing, up the road at the upper post. 
He was sweating heavily now and it was cool under the bridge. 
He had a coil of wire around one arm and a pair of pliers hung by 
a thong from his wrist. 

“Hand me that down a package at a time, viejo,” he called up to 
Anselmo. The old man leaned far over the edge handing down the 
oblong blocks of explosive and Robert Jordan reached up for them, 
shoved them in where he wanted them, packed them close, braced 
them, “Wedges, viejo! Give me wedges!” smelling the fresh shingle 
smell of the new whittled wedges as he tapped them in tight to 
hold the charge between the girders. 

Now as he worked, placing, bracing, wedging, lashing tight 
with wire, thinking only of demolition, working fast and skillfully 
as a surgeon works, he heard a rattle of firing from below on the 
road. Then there was the noise of a grenade. Then another, boom- 
ing through the rushing noise the water made. Then it was quiet 
from that direction. 

“Damn,” he thought. “I wonder what hit them then?” 

There was still firing up the road at the upper post. Too damned 
much firing, and he was lashing two grenades side by side on 
top of the braced blocks of explosive, winding the wire over their 
corrugations so they would hold tight and firm and lashing it tight; 
twisting it with the pliers. He felt of the whole thing and then, to 
make it more solid, tapped in a wedge above the grenades that 
blocked the whole charge firmly in against the steel. 

“The other side now, viejo,” he shouted up to Anselmo and 
climbed across through the trestling, like a bloody Tarzan in a 
rolled steel forest, he thought, and then coming out from under the 
dark, the stream tumbling below him, he looked up and saw 
Anselmo’s face as he reached the packages of explosive down to 
him. Goddamn good face, he thought. Not crying now. That’s 
all to the good. And one side done. This side now and we’re done. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


437 

This will drop it like what all. Come on. Don’t get excited. Do 
it. Clean and fast as the last one. Don’t fumble with it. Take your 
time. Don’t try to do it faster than you can. You can’t lose now. 
Nobody can keep you from blowing one side now. You’re doing 
it )ust the way you should. This is a cool place. Christ, it feels cool as 
a wine cellar and there’s no crap. Usually working under a stone 
bridge it’s full of crap. This is a dream bridge. A bloody dream 
bridge. It’s the old man on top who’s in a bad spot. Don’t try to do 
It faster than you can. I wish that shooting would be over up 
above. “Give me some wedges, viejo.” I don’t like that shooting 
still. Pilar has got in trouble there. Some of the post must have been 
out. Out back; or behind the mill. They’re still shooting. That means 
there’s somebody in the mill. And all that damned sawdust. Those 
big piles of sawdust. Sawdust, when it’s old and packed, is good stuff 
to fight behind. There must be several of them still. It’s quiet below 
with Pablo. I wonder what that second flare-up was. It must have 
been a car or a motor cyclist. I hope to God they don’t have any 
armored cars come up or any tanks. Go on. Put it in just as fast 
as you can and wedge it tight and lash it fast. You’re shaking, 
like a Goddamn woman. What the hell is the matter with you.^ 
You’re trying to do it too fast. I’ll bet that Goddamn woman up 
above isn’t shaking. That Pilar. Maybe she is too. She sounds as 
though she were in plenty trouble. She’ll shake if she gets in enough. 
Like everybody bloody else. 

He leaned out and up into the sunlight and as he reached his 
hand up to take what Anselmo handed him, his head now above 
the noise of the falling water, the firing increased sharply up the 
road and then the noise of grenades again. Then more grenades. 

“They rushed the sawmill then.” 

It’s lucky I’ve got this stuff in blocks, he thought. Instead of 
sticks. What the hell. It’s just neater. Although a lousy canvas sack 
full of jelly would be quicker. Two sacks. No. One of that would 
do. And if we just had detonators and the old exploder. That son 
of a bitch threw my exploder in the river. That old box and the 
places that it’s been. In this river he threw it. That bastard Pablo. 
He gave them hell there below just now. “Give me some more of 
that, viejo.” 

The old man’s doing very well. He’s in quite a place up there. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


438 

He hated to shoot that sentry. So did I but I didn’t think about 
it. Nor do I think about it now. You have to do that. But then 
Anselmo got a cripple. I know about cripples. I think that kil lin g 
a man with an automatic weapon makes it easier. I mean on the 
one doing it. It is different. After the first touch it is it that does it. 
Not you. Save that to go into some other time. You and your head. 
You have a nice thinking head old Jordan. Roll Jordan, Roll! They 
used to yell that at football when you lugged the ball. Do you know 
the damned Jordan is really not much bigger than that creek down 
there below. At the source, you mean. So is anything else at the 
source. This is a place here under this bridge. A home away from 
home. Come on Jordan, pull yourself together. This is serious Jordan. 
Don’t you understand ? Serious. It’s less so all the time. Look at that 
other side. Para que? I’m all right now however she goes. As Maine 
goes so goes the nation. As Jordan goes so go the bloody Israel- 
ites. The bridge, I mean. As Jordan goes, so goes the bloody bridge, 
other way around, really. 

“Give me some more of that, Anselmo old boy,” he said. The old 
man nodded. “Almost through,” Robert Jordan said. The old man 
nodded again. 

Finishing wiring the grenades down, he no longer heard the firing 
from up the road. Suddenly he was working only with the noise of 
the stream. He looked down and saw it boiling up white below 
him through the boulders and then dropping down to a clear pebbled 
pool where one of the wedges he had dropped swung around in the 
current. As he looked a trout rose for some insect and made a circle 
on the surface close to where the chip was turning. As he twisted the 
wire tight with the pliers that held these two grenades in place, he 
saw, through the metal of the bridge, the sunlight on the green 
slope of the mountain. It was brown three days ago, he thought. 

Out from the cool dark under the bridge he leaned into the bright 
sun and shouted to Anselmo ’s bending face, “Give me the big coil 
of wire.” 

The old man handed it down. 

For God’s sake don’t loosen them any yet. This will pull them. I 
wish you could string them through. But with the length wire you 
are using it’s O.K. Robert Jordan thought as he felt the cotter 
pins that held the rings that would release the levers on the hand 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


439 

grenades. He checked that the grenades, lashed on their sides, had 
room for the levers to spring when the pins were pulled (the wire 
that lashed them ran through under the levers), then he attached a 
length of wire to one ring, wired it onto the main wire that ran to 
the ring of the outside grenade, paid off some slack from the coil 
and passed it around a steel brace and then handed the coil up to 
Anselmo. “Hold it carefully,” he said. 

He climbed up onto the bridge, took the coil from the old man 
and walked back as fast as he could pay out wire toward where 
the sentry was slumped in the road, leaning over the side of the 
bridge and paying out wire from the coil as he walked. 

“Bring the sacks,” he shouted to Anselmo as he walked back- 
wards. As he passed he stooped down and picked up the submachine 
gun and slung it over his shoulder again. 

It was then, looking up from paying out wire, that he saw, well 
up the road, those who were coming back from the upper post. 

There were four of them, he saw, and then he had to watch his 
wire so it would be clear and not foul against any of the outer 
work of the bridge. Eladio was not with them. 

Robert Jordan carried the wire clear past the end of the bridge, 
took a loop around the last stanchion and then ran along the road 
until he stopped beside a stone marker. He cut the wire and handed 
it to Anselmo. 

“Hold this, viejo," he said. “Now walk back with me to the 
bridge. Take up on it as you walk. No. I will.” 

At the bridge he pulled the wire back out through the hitch so it 
now ran clear and unfouled to the grenade rings and handed it, 
stretching alongside the bridge but running quite clear, to Anselmo. 

“Take this back to that high stone,” he said. “Hold it easily but 
firmly. Do not put any force on it. When thou pullest hard, hard, 
the bridge will blow. Comprendes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Treat it softly but do not let it sag so it will foul. Keep it lightly 
firm but not pulling until thou pullest. Comprendes?” 

“Yes.” 

“When thou pullest really pull. Do not jerk.” 

Robert Jordan while he spoke was looking up the road at the 
remainder of Pilar’s band. They were close now and he saw Primi- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


440 

tivo and Rafael were supporting Fernando. He looked to be shot 
through the groin for he was holding himself there with both hands 
while the man and the boy held him on either side. His right leg 
was dragging, the side of the shoe scraping on the road as they 
walked him. Pilar was climbing the bank into the timber carrying 
three rifles. Robert Jordan could not see her face but her head was 
up and she was climbing as fast as she could. 

“How does it go?” Primitivo called. 

“Good. We’re almost finished,” Robert Jordan shouted back. 

There was no need to ask how it went with them. As he looked 
away the three were on the edge of the road and Fernando was 
shaking his head as they tried to get him up the bank. 

“Give me a rifle here,” Robert Jordan heard him say in a choky 
voice. 

“No, homhre. We will get thee to the horses.” 

“What would I do with a horse.?” Fernando said. “I am very well 
here.” 

Robert Jordan did not hear the rest for he was speaking to An- 
selmo. 

“Blow it if tanks come,” he said. “But only if they come onto it. 
Blow it if armored cars come. If they come onto it. Anything else 
Pablo will stop.” 

“I will not blow it with thee beneath it.” 

“Take no account of me. Blow it if thou needest to. I fix the other 
wire and come back. Then we will blow it together.” 

He started running for the center of the bridge. 

Anselmo saw Robert Jordan run up the bridge, coil of wire over 
his arm, pliers hanging from one wrist and the submachine gun 
slung over his back. He saw him climb down under the rail of the 
bridge and out of sight. Anselmo held the wire in his hand, his right 
hand, and he crouched behind the stone marker and looked down 
the road and across the bridge. Halfway between him and the bridge 
was the sentry, who had settled now closer to the road, sinking closer 
onto the smooth road surface as the sun weighed on his back. His 
rifle, lying on the road, the bayonet fixed, pointed straight toward 
Anselmo. The old man looked past him along the surface of the 
bridge crossed by the shadows of the bridge rail to where the road 
swung to the left along the gorge and then turned out of sight be- 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 44I 

jhind the rocky wall. He looked at the far sentry box with the sun 
shining on it and then, conscious of the wire in his hand, he turned 
his head to where Fernando was speaking to Primitivo and the 

gypsy- 

“Leave me here,” Fernando said. “It hurts much and there is 
much hemorrhage inside. I feel it in the inside when I move.” 

“Let us get thee up the slope,” Primitivo said. “Put thy arms 
around our shoulders and we will take thy legs.” 
j “It is inutile,” Fernando said. “Put me here behind a stone. I am 
as useful here as above.” 

I “But when we go,” Primitivo said. 

! “Leave me here,” Fernando said. “There is no question of my 
! travelling with this. Thus it gives one horse more. I am very well 
I here. Certainly they will come soon.” 

“We can take thee up the hill,” the gypsy said. “Easily.” 

I He was, naturally, in a deadly hurry to be gone, as was Primi- 
tivo. But they had brought him this far. 

“Nay,” Fernando said. “I am very well here. What passes with 
Eladio.?” 

^ The gypsy put his finger on his head to show where the wound 
had been. 

“Here,” he said. “After thee. When we made the rush.” 

“Leave me,” Fernando said. Anselmo could see he was suffering 
much. He held both hands against his groin now and put his head 
back against the bank, his legs straight out before him. His face 
Ifi was gray and sweating. 

I “Leave me now please, for a favor,” he said. His eyes were shut 
: with pain, the edges of the lips twitching. “I find myself very well 
® here.” 

“Here is a rifle and cartridges,” Primitivo said. 

“Is it mine.?” Fernando asked, his eyes shut. 

“Nay, the Pilar has thine,” Primitivo said. “This is mine.” 

“I would prefer my own,” Fernando said. “I am more accus- 
tomed to it.” 

“I will bring it to thee,” the gypsy lied to him. “Keep this until 
it comes.” 

“I am in a very good position here,” Fernando said. “Both for up 
the road and for the bridge.” He opened his eyes, turned his head 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


442 

and looked across the bridge, then shut them as the pain came. 

The gypsy tapped his head and motioned with his thumb to 
Primitivo for them to be off. 

“Then we will be down for thee,” Primitivo said and started up 
the slope after the gypsy, who was climbing fast. 

Fernando lay back against the bank. In front of him was one of 
the whitewashed stones that marked the edge of the road. His head 
was in the shadow but the sun shone on his plugged and bandaged 
wound and on his hands that were cupped over it. His legs and his 
feet also were in the sun. The rifle lay beside him and there were 
three clips of cartridges shining in the sun beside the rifle. A fly 
crawled on his hands but the small tickling did not come through 
the pain. 

“Fernando!” Anselmo called to him from where he crouched, 
holding the wire. He had made a loop in the end of the wire and 
twisted it close so he could hold it in his fisL 

“Fernando!” he called again. 

Fernando opened his eyes and looked at him. 

“How does it go?” Fernando asked. 

“Very good,” Anselmo said. “Now in a minute we will be blow- 
ing it.” 

“I am pleased. Anything you need me for advise me,” Fernando 
said and shut his eyes again and the pain lurched in him. 

Anselmo looked away from him and out onto the bridge. 

He was watching for the first sight of the coil of wire being 
handed up onto the bridge and for the Ingles’s sunburnt head and 
face to follow it as he would pull himself up the side. At the same 
time he was watching beyond the bridge for anything to come 
around the far corner of the road. He did not feel afraid now at all 
and he had not been afraid all the day. It goes so fast and it is so 
normal, he thought. I hated the shooting of the guard and it made 
me an emotion but that is passed now. How could the Ingles say 
that the shooting of a man is like the shooting of an animal? In all 
hunting I have had an elation and no feeling of wrong. But to shoot 
a man gives a feeling as though one had struck one’s own brother 
when you are grown men. And to shoot him various times to kill 
him. Nay, do not think of that. That gave thee too much emotion 
and thee ran blubbering down the bridge like a woman. 

That is over, he told himself, and thou canst try to atone for it 


I loR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 443 

|is for the others. But now thou hast what thou asked for last night 
joining home across the hills. Thou art in battle and thou hast no 
iproblem. If I die on this morning now it is all right, 
i Then he looked at Fernando lying there against the bank with 
bis hands cupped over the groove of his hip, his lips blue, his eyes 
tight shut, breathing heavily and slowly, and he thought. If I die 
may it be quickly. Nay I said I would ask nothing more if I were 
igranted what I needed for today. So I will not ask. Understand.? I 
ask nothing. Nothing in any way. Give me what I asked for and I 
leave all the rest according to discretion. 

! He listened to the noise that came, far away, of the battle at the 
pass and he said to himself. Truly this is a great day. I should 
realize and know what a day this is. 

But there was no lift or any excitement in his heart. That was all 

I gone and there was nothing but a calmness. And now, as he crouched 
behind the marker stone with the looped wire in his hand and an- 
other loop of it around his wrist and the gravel beside the road 
under his knees he was not lonely nor did he feel in any way alone. 
He was one with the wire in his hand and one with the bridge, and 
one with the charges the Ingles had placed. He was one with the 
Ingles still working under the bridge and he was one with all of the 
^battle and with the Republic. 

But there was no excitement. It was all calm now and the sun 
beat down on his neck and on his shoulders as he crouched and as 
I he looked up he saw the high, cloudless sky and the slope of the 
mountain rising beyond the river and he was not happy but he was 
neither lonely nor afraid. 

I Up the hill slope Pilar lay behind a tree watching the road that 
: came down from the pass. She had three loaded rifles by her and 
: she handed one to Primitivo as he dropped down beside her. 

“Get down there,” she said. “Behind that tree. Thou, gypsy, over 
there,” she pointed to another tree below. “Is he dead.?” 

“Nay. Not yet,” Primitivo said. 

“It was bad luck,” Pilar said. “If we had had two more it need not 
have happened. He should have crawled around the sawdust pile. 
Is he all right there where he is.?” 

Primitivo shook his head. 

“When the Ingles blows the bridge will fragments come this far.?” 
the gypsy asked from behind his tree. 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


444 

“I don’t know,” Pilar said. “But Agustin with the mdquina is * 
closer than thee. The Ingles would not have placed him there if it | 
were too close.” j 

“But I remember with the blowing of the train the lamp of the 
engine blew by over my head and pieces of steel flew by like swal- 
lows.” 

“Thou hast poetic memories,” Pilar said. “Like swallows. Joder! 
They were like wash boilers. Listen, gypsy, thou hast comported 
thyself well today. Now do not let thy fear catch up with thee.” 

“Well, I only asked if it would blow this far so I might keep well 
behind the tree trunk,” the gypsy said. 

“Keep it thus,” Pilar told him. “How many have we killed.?” 

“Pues five for us. Two here. Canst thou not see the other at the far 
end.? Look there toward the bridge. See the box.? Look! Dost see.?” 
He pointed. “Then there were eight below for Pablo. I watched that 
post for the Ingles.” 

Pilar grunted. Then she said violently and raging, “What passes 
with that Ingles? What is he obscenitying off under that bridge. 
Vaya mandangal Is he building a bridge or blowing one?” 

She raised her head and looked down at Anselmo crouched be- 
hind the stone marker. 

“Hey, viejol” she shouted. “What passes with thy obscenity of an 
Ingles?” 

“Patience, woman,” Anselmo called up, holding the wire lightly 
but firmly. “He is terminating his work.” 

“But what in the name of the great whore does he take so much 
time about.?” 

‘‘Es muy concienzudol” Anselmo shouted. “It is a scientific labor.” 

“I obscenity in the milk of science,” Pilar raged to the gypsy. 
“Let the filth-faced obscenity blow it and be done. Maria!” she 
shouted in her deep voice up the hill. “Thy Ingles — " and she shouted 
a flood of obscenity about Jordan’s imaginary actions under the 
bridge. 

“Calm yourself, woman,” Anselmo called from the road. “He is 
doing an enormous work. He is finishing it now.” 

“The hell with it,” Pilar raged. “It is speed that counts.” 

Just then they all heard firing start down the road where Pablo 
was holding the post he had taken. Pilar stopped cursing and lis- 
tened. “Ay,” she said. “Ayee. Ayee. That’s it.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


445 

Robert Jordan heard it as he swung the coil of wire up onto the 
bridge with one hand and then pulled himself up after it. As his 
knees rested on the edge of the iron of the bridge and his hands 
were on the surface he heard the machine gun firing around the bend 
below. It was a different sound from Pablo’s automatic rifle. He got 
to his feet, leaned over, passed his coil of wire clear and commenced 
to pay out wire as he walked backwards and sideways along the 
bridge. 

He heard the firing and as he walked he felt it in the pit of 
his stomach as though it echoed on his own diaphragm. It was closer 
now as he walked and he looked back at the bend of the road. But 
it was still clear of any car, or tank or men. It was still clear when he 
was halfway to the end of the bridge. It was still clear when he was 
three quarters of the way, his wire running clear and unfouled, and 
it was still clear as he climbed around behind the sentry box, holding 
his wire out to keep it from catching on the iron work. Then he was 
on the road and it was still clear below on the road and then he was 
moving fast backwards up the little washed-out gully by the lower 
side of the road as an outfielder goes backwards for a long fly ball, 
keeping the wire taut, and now he was almost opposite Anselmo’s 
stone and it was still clear below the bridge. 

Then he heard the truck coming down the road and he saw 
it over his shoulder just coming onto the long slope and he swung 
his wrist once around the wire and yelled to Anselmo. “Blow her!” 
and he dug his heels in and leaned back hard onto the tension 
of the wire with a turn of it around his wrist and the noise of 
the truck was coming behind and ahead there was the road with the 
dead sentry and the long bridge and the stretch of road below, still 
clear and then there was a cracking roar and the middle of the 
bridge rose up in the air like a wave breaking and he felt the blast 
from the explosion roll back against him as he dove on his face in 
the pebbly gully with his hands holding tight over his head. His 
face was down against the pebbles as the bridge settled where it had 
risen and the familiar yellow smell of it rolled over him in acrid 
smoke and then it commenced to rain pieces of steel. 

After the steel stopped falling he was still alive and he raised his 
head and looked across the bridge. The center section of it was gone. 
There were jagged pieces of steel on the bridge with their bright, new 
torn edges and ends and these were all over the road. The truck had 


446 for whom the bell tolls. 

stopped up the road about a hundred yards. The driver and the two 
men who had been with him were running toward a culvert. 

Fernando was still lying against the bank and he was still breath- 
ing. His arms straight by his sides, his hands relaxed. 

Anselmo lay face down behind the white marking stone. His left 
arm was doubled under his head and his right arm was stretched 
straight out. The loop of wire was stiU around his right fist. Robert 
Jordan got to his feet, crossed the road, knelt by him and made sure 
that he was dead. He did not turn him over to see what the piece of 
steel had done. He was dead and that was all. 

He looked very small, dead, Robert Jordan thought. He looked 
small and gray-headed and Robert Jordan thought, I wonder how he 
ever carried such big loads if that is the size he really was. Then 
he saw the shape of the calves and the thighs in the tight, gray herds- 
man’s breeches and the worn soles of the rope-soled shoes and he 
picked up Anselmo’s carbine and the two sacks, practically empty 
now and went over and picked up the rifle that lay beside Fernando. 
He kicked a jagged piece of steel off the surface of the road. Then 
he swung the two rifles over his shoulder, holding them by the 
muzzles, and started up the slope into the timber. He did not look 
back nor did he even look across the bridge at the road. They were 
still firing around the bend below but he cared nothing about that 
now. 

He was coughing from the TNT fumes and he felt numb all 
through himself. 

He put one of the rifles down by Pilar where she lay behind the 
tree. She looked and saw that made three rifl^es that she had 
again. 

“You are too high up here,” he said. “There’s a truck up the road 
where you can’t see it. They thought it was planes. You better get 
further down. I’m going down with Agustin to cover Pablo.” 

“The old one.?” she asked him, looking at his face. 

“Dead.” 

He coughed again, wrackingly, and spat on the ground. 

“Thy bridge is blown, Ingles,” Pilar looked at him. “Don’t forget 
that.” 

“I don’t forget anything,” he said. “You have a big voice,” he said 
to Pilar. “I have heard thee bellow. Shout up to the Maria and tell 
her that I am all right.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 447 

“We lost two at the sawmill,” Pilar said, trying to make him 
[ understand. 

j “So I saw,” Robert Jordan said. “Did you do something stupid?” 

I “Go and obscenity thyself, Ingles,” Pilar said. “Fernando and 
I Eladio were men, too.” 

I “Why don’t you go up with the horses?” Robert Jordan said. 
{ “I can cover here better than thee.” 

I “Thou art to cover Pablo.” 

“The hell with Pablo. Let him cover himself with mierda.” 

I “Nay, Ingles. He came back. He has fought much below there. 

Thou hast not listened? He is fighting now. Against something 
I bad. Do you not hear?” 

“I’ll cover him. But obscenity all of you. Thou and Pablo both.” 
“Ingles,” Pilar said. “Calm thyself. I have been with thee in this 
as no one could be. Pablo did thee a wrong but he returned.” 

“If I had had the exploder the old man would not have been 
killed. I could have blown it from here.” 

“If, if, if — ” Pilar said. 

The anger and the emptiness and the hate that had come with the 
let-down after the bridge, when he had looked up from where he had 
lain and crouching, seen Anselmo dead, were still all through him. 
In him, too, was despair from the sorrow that soldiers turn to hatred 
in order that they may continue to be soldiers. Now it was over he 
was lonely, detached and unelated and he hated every one he saw. 

“If there had been no snow—” Pilar said. And then, not suddenly, 
as a physical release could have been (if the woman would have 
put her arm around him, say) but slowly and from his head he 
began to accept it and let the hate go out. Sure, the snow. That had 
done it. The snow. Done it to others. Once you saw it again as it 
was to others, once you got rid of your own self, the always ridding 
of self that you had to do in war. Where there could be no self. 
Where yourself is only to be lost. Then, from his losing of it, he 

heard Pilar say, “Sordo ” 

“What?” he said. 

“Sordo ” 

“Yes,” Robert Jordan said. He grinned at her, a cracked, stiff, too- 
tightened-facial-tendoned grin. “Forget it. I was wrong. I am sorry, 
woman. Let us do this well and all together. And the bridge is 
blown, as thou sayest.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


448 

“Yes. Thou must think of things in their place.” 

“Then I go now to Agustin. Put thy gypsy much farther down 1 
so that he can see well up the road. Give those guns to Primitivo . 
and take this mdquina. Let me show thee.” 

“Keep the mdquina,” Pilar said. “We will not be here any time. 
Pablo should come now and we will be going.” * 

“Rafael,” Robert Jordan said, “come down here with me. Here. ‘ 
Good. See those coming out of the culvert. There, above the truck.? , 
Coming toward the truck.? Hit me one of those. Sit. Take it easy.” * 

The gypsy aimed carefully and fired and as he jerked the bolt 
back and ejected the shell Robert Jordan said, “Over. You threw 
against the rock above. See the rock dust.? Lower, by two feet. ! 
Now, careful. They’re running. Good. Sigue tirando.” 

“I got one,” the gypsy said. The man was down in the road half- 
way between the culvert and the truck. The other two did not stop 
to drag him. They ran for the culvert and ducked in. 

“Don’t shoot at him,” Robert Jordan said. “Shoot for the top part 
of a front tire on the truck. So if you miss you’ll hit the engine. 
’Good.” He watched with the glasses. “A little lower. Good. You 
shoot like hell. Muchol Mucho! Shoot me the top of the radiator. 
Anywhere on the radiator. Thou art a champion. Look. Don’t let 
anything come past that point there. See.?” 

“Watch me break the windshield in the truck,” the gypsy said 
happily. 

“Nay. The truck is already sick,” Robert Jordan said. “Hold thy 
fire until anything comes down the road. Start firing when it is op- 
posite the culvert. Try to hit the driver. That you all should fire, 
then,” he spoke to Pilar who had come farther down the slope with 
Primitivo. “You are wonderfully placed here. See how that steep- 
ness guards thy flank.?” 

“That you should get about thy business with Agustm,” Pilar 
said. “Desist from thy lecture. I have seen terrain in my time.” 

“Put Primitivo farther up there,” Robert Jordan said. “There. 
See, man.? This side of where the bank steepens.” 

“Leave me,” said Pilar. “Get along, Ingles. Thou and thy perfec- 
tion. Here there is no problem.” 

Just then they heard the planes. 

Marla had been with the horses for a long time, but they were no 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


449 

comfort to her. Nor was she any to them. From where she was in 
the forest she could not see the road nor could she see the bridge 
and when the firing started she put her arm around the neck of 
the big white-faced bay stallion that she had gentled and brought 
gifts to many times when the horses had been in the corral in the 
trees below the camp. But her nervousness made the big stallion 
nervous, too, and he jerked his head, his nostrils widening at the 
firing and the noise of the bombs. Maria could not keep still and 
she walked around patting and gentling the horses and making 
them all rnore nervous and agitated. 

She tried to think of the firing not as just a terrible thing that was 
happening, but to realize that it was Pablo below with the new men, 
and Pilar with the others above, and that she must not worry nor 
get into a panic but must have confidence in Roberto. But she 
could not do this and all the firing above and below the bridge and 
the distant sound of the battle that rolled down from the pass like 
the noise of a far-off storm with a dried, rolling rattle in it and the 
irregular beat of the bombs was simply a horrible thing that almost 
kept her from breathing. 

Then later she heard Pilar’s big voice from away below on the 
hillside shouting up some obscenity to her that she could not under- 
stand and she thought, Oh, God no, no. Don’t talk like that with 
him in peril. Don’t offend any one and make useless risks. Don’t 
give any provocation. 

Then she commenced to pray for Roberto quickly and automati- 
cally as she had done at school, saying the prayers as fast as she 
could and counting them on the fingers of her left hand, praying 
by tens of each of the two prayers she was repeating. Then the 
bridge blew and one horse snapped his halter when he rose and 
jerked his head at the cracking roar and he went off through the 
trees. Maria caught him finally and brought him back, shivering, 
trembling, his chest dark with sweat, the saddle down, and coming 
back through the trees she heard shooting below and she thought 
I cannot stand this longer. I cannot live not knowing any longer. I 
cannot breathe and my mouth is so dry. And I am afraid and I am 
no good and I frighten the horses and only caught this horse by 
hazard because he knocked the saddle down against a tree and 
caught himself kicking into the stirrups and now as I get the saddle 
up. Oh, God, I do not know. I cannot bear it. Oh please have him 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


450 

be all right for all my heart and all of me is at the bridge. The Re- 
public is one thing and we must win is another thing. But, Oh, 
Sweet Blessed Virgin, bring him back to me from the bridge and I 
will do anything thou sayest ever. Because I am not here. There 
isn’t any me. I am only with him. Take care of him for me and 
that will be me and then I will do the things for thee and he will not 
mind. Nor will it be against the Republic. Oh, please forgive me for 
I am very confused. I am too confused now. But if thou takest care 
of him I will do whatever is right. I will do what he says and what 
you say. With the two of me I will do it. But this now not knowing 
I cannot endure. 

Then, the horse tied again, she with the saddle up now, the blan- 
ket smoothed, hauling tight on the cinch she heard the big, deep 
voice from the timber below, “Maria! Maria! Thy Ingles is all right. 
Hear me? All right. Sin Novedad!” 

Maria held the saddle with both hands and pressed her cropped 
head hard against it and cried. She heard the deep voice shouting 
again and she turned from the saddle and shouted, choking, “Yes! 
Thank you!” Then, choking again, “Thank you! Thank you very 
much!” 

When they heard the planes they all looked up and the planes 
were coming from Segovia very high in the sky, silvery in the high 
sky, their drumming rising over all the other sounds. 

“Those!” Pilar said. “There has only lacked those!” 

Robert Jordan put his arm on her shoulders as he watched them. 
“Nay, woman,” he said. “Those do not come for us. Those have 
no time for us. Calm thyself.” 

“I hate them.” 

“Me too. But now I must go to Agustm.” 

He circled the hillside through the pines and all the time there 
was the throbbing, drumming of the planes and across the shattered 
bridge on the road below, around the bend of the road there was the 
intermittent hammering fire of a heavy machine gun. 

Robert Jordan dropped down to where Agustin lay in the clump 
of scrub pines behind the automatic rifle and more planes were 
coming all the time. 

“What passes below?” Agustm said. “What is Pablo doing? 
Doesn’t he know the bridge is gone?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


451 


“Maybe he can’t leave.” 

“Then let us leave. The hell with him.” 

“He will come now if he is able,” Robert Jordan said. “We should 
see him now.” 

“I have not heard him,” Agustin said. “Not for five minutes. No. 
There! Listen! There he is. That’s him.” 

There was a burst of the spot-spot-spotting fire of the cavalry sub- 
machine gun, then another, then another. 

“That’s the bastard,” Robert Jordan said. 

He watched still more planes coming over in the high cloudless 
blue sky and he watched Agustin’s face as he looked up at them. 
Then he looked down at the shattered bridge and across to the 
stretch of road which still was clear. He coughed and spat and lis- 
tened to the heavy machine gun hammer again below the bend. It 
sounded to be in the same place that it was before. 

“And what’s that?” Agustin asked. “What the unnameable is that?” 

“It has been going since before I blew the bridge,” Robert Jor- 
dan said. He looked down at the bridge now and he could see the 
stream through the torn gap where the center had fallen, hanging 
like a bent steel apron. He heard the first of the planes that had 
gone over now bombing up above at the pass and more were still 
coming. The noise of their motors filled all the high sky and looking 
up he saw their pursuit, minute and tiny, circling and wheeling high 
above them. 

“I don’t think they ever crossed the lines the other morning,” 
Primitivo said. “They must have swung off to the west and then 
come back. They could not be making an attack if they had seen 
these.” 

“Most of these are new,” Robert Jordan said. 

He had the feeling of something that had started normally and 
had then brought great, outsized, giant repercussions. It was as 
though you had thrown a stone and the stone made a ripple and the 
ripple returned roaring and toppling as a tidal wave. Or as though 
you shouted and the echo came back in rolls and peals of thunder, 
and the thunder was deadly. Or as though you struck one man and 
he fell and as far as you could see other men rose up all armed and 
armored. He was glad he was not with Golz up at the pass. 

Lying there, by Agustin, watching the planes going over, listening 
for firing behind him, watching the road below where he knew 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


452 

he would see something but not what it would be, he still felt n um b 
with the surprise that he had not been killed at the bridge. He had 
accepted being killed so completely that all of this now seemed un- 
real. Shake out of that, he said to himself. Get rid of that. There is 
much, much, much to be done today. But it would not leave, him 
and he felt, consciously, all of this becoming like a dream. 

“You swallowed too much of that smoke,” he told himself. But 
he knew it was not that. He could feel, solidly, how unreal it all was 
through the absolute reality and he looked down at the bridge and 
then back to the sentry lying on the road, to where Ansehno lay, 
to Fernando against the bank and back up the smooth, brown road 
to the stalled truck and still it was unreal. 

“You better sell out your part of you quickly,” he told himself. 
“You’re like one of those cocks In the pit where nobody has seen 
the wound given and it doesn’t show and he is already going cold 
with it.” 

“Nuts,” he said to himself. “You are a little groggy is all, and you 
have a let-down after responsibility, is all. Take it easy.” 

Then Agustin grabbed his arm and pointed and he looked 
across the gorge and saw Pablo. 

They saw Pablo come running around the corner of the bend 
in the road. At the sheer rock where the road went out of sight 
they saw him stop and lean against the rock and fire back up the 
road. Robert Jordan saw Pablo, short, heavy and stocky, his cap gone, 
leaning against the rock wall and firing the short cavalry automatic 
rifle and he could see the bright flicker of the cascading brass hulls as 
the sun caught them. They saw Pablo crouch and fire another burst. 
Then, without looking back, he came running, short, bow-legged, 
fast, his head bent down straight toward the bridge. 

Robert Jordan had pushed Agustin over and he had the stock of 
the big automatic rifle against his shoulder and was sighting on the 
bend of the road. His own submachine gun lay by his left hand. It 
was not accurate enough for that range. 

As Pablo came toward them Robert Jordan sighted on the bend 
but nothing came. Pablo had reached the bridge, looked over his 
shoulder once, glanced at the bridge, and then turned to his left and 
gone down into the gorge and out of sight. Robert Jordan was still 
watching the bend and nothing had come in sight. Agustin got up 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


453 

on one knee. He could see Pablo climbing down into the gorge like 
a goat. There had been no noise of firing below since they had first 
seen Pablo. 

“You see anything up above? On the rocks above?” Robert Jordan 
asked. 

“Nothing.” 

Robert Jordan watched the bend of the road. He knew the wall just 
below that was too steep for any one to climb but below it eased and 
some one might have circled up above. 

If things had been unreal before, they were suddenly real enough 
now. It was as though a reflex lens camera had been suddenly 
brought into focus. It was then he saw the low-bodied, angled snout 
and squat green, gray and brown-splashed turret with the projecting 
machine gun come around the bend into the bright sun. He fired 
on it and he could hear the spang against the steel. The little whip- 
pet tank scuttled back behind the rock wall. Watching the corner, 
Robert Jordan saw the nose just reappear, then the edge of the tur- 
ret showed and the turret swung so that the gun was pointing down 
the road. 

“It seems like a mouse coming out of his hole,” Agustin said. 
“Look, Ingles.” 

“He has little confidence,” Robert Jordan said. 

“This is the big insect Pablo has been fighting,” Agustin said. 
“Hit him again, Ingles.” 

“Nay. I cannot hurt him. I don’t want him to see where we are.” 

The tank commenced to fire down the road. The bullets hit the 
road surface and sung off and now they were pinging and clanging 
in the iron of the bridge. It was the same machine gun they had 
heard below. 

“Cabronl” Agustin said. “Is that the famous tanks, Ingles?” 

“That’s a baby one.” 

“Cabron. If I had a baby bottle full of gasoline I would climb up 
there and set fire to him. What will he do, Ingles?” 

“After a while he will have another look.” 

“And these are what men fear,” Agustin said. “Look, Ingles! 
He’s rekilling the sentries.” 

• “Since he has no other target,” Robert Jordan said. “Do not re- 
proach him.” 


454 I’OR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 

But he was thinking, Sure, make fun of him. But suppose it was 
you, way back here in your own country and they held you up with 
firing on the main road. Then a bridge was blown. Wouldn’t you 
think it was mined ahead or that there was a trap ? Sure you would. 
He’s done all right. He’s waiting for something else to come up. 
He’s engaging the enemy. It’s only us. But he can’t tell that. Look 
at the little bastard. 

The little tank had nosed a little farther around the corner. 

Just then Agustin saw Pablo coming over the edge of the gorge, 
pulling himself over on hands and knees, his brisdy face running 
with sweat. 

“Here comes the son of a bitch,” he said. 

“Who.?” 

“Pablo.” 

Robert Jordan looked, saw Pablo, and then he commenced firing 
at the part of the camouflaged turret of the tank where he knew 
the slit above the machine gun would be. The little tank whirred 
backwards, scuttling out of sight and Robert Jordan picked up the 
automatic rifle, clamped the tripod against the barrel and swung the 
gun with its still hot muzzle over his shoulder. The muzzle was so 
hot it burned his shoulder and he shoved it far behind him turning 
the stock flat in his hand. 

“Bring the sack of pans and my litde mdquina,” he shouted, “and 
come running.” 

Robert Jordan ran up the hill through the pines. Agusdn was 
close behind him and behind him Pablo was coming. 

“Pilar!” Jordan shouted across the hill. “Come on, woman!” 

The three of them were going as fast as they could up the steep 
slope. They could not run any more because the grade was too se- 
vere and Pablo, who had no load but the light cavalry submachine 
gun, had closed up with the other two. 

“And thy people.?” Agustin said to Pablo out of his dry mouth. 

“All dead,” Pablo said. He was almost unable to breathe. 
Agustin turned his head and looked at him. 

“We have plenty of horses now, Ingles,” Pablo panted. 

“Good,” Robert Jordan said. The murderous bastard, he thought. 
“What did you encounter.?” 

“Everything,” Pablo said. He was breathing in lunges. ‘What 
passed with Pilar?” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


455 


“She lost Fernando and the brother ” 

“Eladio,” Agustm said. 

“And thou?” Pablo asked. 

“I lost Anselmo.” 

“There are lots of horses,” Pablo said. “Even for the baggage.” 

Agustm bit his lip, looked at Robert Jordan and shook his head. 
Below them, out of sight through the trees, they heard the tank 
firing on the road and bridge again. 

Robert Jordan jerked his head. “What passed with that?” he said 
to Pablo. He did not like to look at Pablo, nor to smell him, but he 
wanted to hear him. 

“I could not leave with that there,” Pablo said. “We were barri- 
caded at the lower bend of the post. Finally it went back to look 
for something and I came.” 

“What were you shooting at, at the bend?” Agustin asked 
bluntly. 

Pablo looked at him, started to grin, thought better of it, and said 
nothing. 

“Did you shoot them all?” Agustm asked. Robert Jordan was 
thinking, keep your mouth shut. It is none of your business now. 
They have done all that you could expect and more. This is an 
inter-tribal matter. Don’t make moral judgments. What do you ex- 
pect from a murderer? You’re working with a murderer. Keep your 
mouth shut. You knew enough about him before. This is nothing 
new. But you dirty bastard, he thought. You dirty, rotten bastard. 

His chest was aching with the climbing as though it would split 
after the running and ahead now through the trees he saw the 
horses. 

“Go ahead,” Agustm was saying. “Why do you not say you shot 
them?” 

“Shut up,” Pablo said. “I have fought much today and well. Ask 
the Ingles.” 

“And now get us through today,” Robert Jordan said. “For it is 
thee who has the plan for this.” 

“I have a good plan,” Pablo said. “With a little luck we will be 
all right.” 

He was beginning to breathe better. 

“You’re not going to kill any of us, are you?” Agustm said. “For 
I will kill thee now.” 


FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS 


456 

“Shut up,” Pablo said. “I have to look after thy interest and that 
of the band. This is war. One cannot do what one would wish,” 

“Cabron” said Agustin. “You take all the prizes.” 

“Tell me what thou encountered below,” Robert Jordan said to 
Pablo. 

“Every